THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


KITTY'S  VALENTINE.     Page  42. 


A. 


THE    PROVERB     SERIES. 


!IRDS   OF  A  FEAT] 


BY 


MRS.    BRADLEY, 


AUTHOB  OP  "GBACE'B  VISIT,"  "DOUGLASS  FABM,"  "BBEAD  UFOH 

THE  WATBE8,"  "  PICTOBE  8TOBY  BOOK,"  "BESfirK," 

"LITTLE  FIB  TB££,"  ETO. 


I  BOSTON : 

EE    AND    SHEPARD,    PUBLISHERS. 

NEW   YORK: 
LEE,  SHEPARD  AND  DILLINGHAM. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 

LEE  AND  8HEPAKD, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  MaMichmetU. 


HO.   II  tPHINO   LANI. 


TO 

THE  DEAR  LITTLE  PEOPLE 

OF 

"SPMNGSIDE"    AND    "THE    HOLLOW." 

— <x>t*Joo— 

You  remember  the  old  proverb,  "Birds  of  a  feather 
flock  together"?  These  stories  of  the  faults  and  con- 
fessions, the  lessons  and  rewards,  the  mistakes  and 
amendments  of  children  like  yourselves,  are  "  birds  of 
a  feather"  in  many  respects,  and  so  "flock  together" 
naturally  in  this  little  book  which  I  have  the  pleasure 
of  presenting  to  you. 

In  respect  of  age  and  relationship,  and  affection  for 
one  another,  in  love  of  fun,  and  faculty  for  mischief,  — 
and  also,  I  think,- in  many  higher  and  holier  faculties, 
—  you  are  yourselves  "birds  of  a  feather."  May  you 
always  "flock  together"  for  all  good  and  beautiful  pur- 
poses ;  encouraging  each  other's  efforts,  avoiding  each 
other's  faults,  sympathizing  tenderly  in  each  other's  joy 
and  sorrow,  until  you  plume  your  wings  to  those  upper 
spheres  where  "birds  of  a  feather  flock  together"  with 
endless  song  and  rejoicing. 


(3) 


THE     PROVERB     SERIES. 


1.  BIRDS    OF  A  FEATHER. 

2.  FINE     FEATHERS    DO    NOT     MAKE     FINE 

BIRDS. 

3.  HANDSOME    IS    THAT   HANDSOME    DOES. 

4.  A     WRONG     CONFESSED     IS     HALF     RE- 

DRESSED. 

5.  ACTIONS   SPEAK  LOUDER  THAN  WORDS. 

6.  ONE  GOOD  TURN  DESERVES  ANOTHER. 


622827 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.    SUSIE'S  SLEIGH-RIDE 9 

II.     KITTY'S  VALENTINE 33 

III.  SAM'S  PUNISHMENT 45 

IV.  RUSSELL'S  PAINT-BOX 65 

V.    BESSIE'S  FRIEND .    ,    ,     .  83 

VI.  SPENCER'S  CHERRIES.      .......  98 

VII.  ROSY  LEE'S  THANKSGIVING.     .....  113 

VIII.    BLANCHE'S  LESSON 130 

IX.    JESSIE'S  JOURNEY 149 

X.    LOUISE'S  BIRTHDAY. 171 

XI.    LUCY'S  BEST  HAT.      . 197 

XII.    TOM'S  ALLOWANCE 207 


BIRDS  OF  A  FEATHER. 


SUSIE'S   SLEIGH-RIDE. 

"  A  /TAMMA,"   said  little   Susie  Thompson, 

-LVA  one  Saturday  morning,  "  can  I  go 
out  on  the  sidewalk,  and  play  with  Carrie 
Pratt?" 

"  If  you  are  well  wrapped  up,"  her  mother 
answered.  "  You  know  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
snow  on  the  ground,  and  it  is  very  cold." 

"  O,  I  know ! "  said  Susie.  "  Overshoes,  and 
leggins,  and  hood,  and  cloak,  and  mittens,  and 
all  that !  .  Dear  me  I  what  a  lot  of  things  it  takes 
to  keep  anybody  warm!  —  doesn't  it,  mamma? 
and  it's  so  tiresome  getting  them  all  on ! " 

"  Anybody  ought  to  be  very  thankful  to  have 
such  a  lot  of  nice  warm  clothes,"  her  mother 
answered.  "  It  isn't  half  so  tiresome  for  you  to 

(9) 


IO  BIRDS   OF  A   FEATHER. 

put  on  your  wraps  as  for  some  poor  little  girl  to 
go  shivering  through  the  streets  without  any." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Susie,  sitting 
down  upon  the  floor,  and  tugging  vigorously  at 
her  India-rubber  boot.  "  But  I  do  say  that  leg- 
gins  and  overshoes  are  a  great  bother,  neverthe- 
less. O,  dear !  "  as  an  unusually  hard  jerk  threw 
her  backwards,  and  bumped  her  head  against 
the  door,  **  I  do  wish  I  had  somebody  to  put 
them  on  for  me !  Carrie  Pratt  never  puts 
hers  on ! " 

Mrs.  Thompson  looked  down  with  a  smile  at 
the  fretful  little  face.  Susie  was  rather  apt  to 
get  discouraged  over  small  difficulties,  but  her 
mother  did  not  spoil  her  by  helping  her  out  of 
them.  She  knew  it  was  much  better  for  her  to 
learn  to  conquer  them  herself  by  patience  and 
perseverance,  and  Susie  knew  very  well  what 
that  smile  meant,  and  that  there  was  no  hope 
of  her  mother's  offering  to  put  the  shoes  on  for 
her. 

So  she  concluded  to  try  again ;  and  as  she 
really  made  an  effort  not  to  be  impatient,  she 
was  soon  rewarded  with  success.  Both  leggins 
and  both  overshoes  on,  it  was  an  easy  matter  to 
arrange  the  rest ;  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  Susie, 


SUSIE'S   SLEIGH-RIDE.  II 

looking  the  picture  of  comfort,  in  her  gray  beaver 
cloak  and  pretty  Solferino  hood,  with  mittens  to 
match,  was  jumping  down  stairs,  two  steps  at 
a  time,  on  her  way  to  the  street. 

Carrie  Pratt  lived  just  opposite,  in  the  brown 
cottage  with  such  a  pretty  garden  in  front,  and 
Susie  ran  across  the  street  to  call  her  out  to  play. 
But  no  Carrie  answered,  although  she  stood  at 
the  gate  and  called,  "  Carrie  !  Carrie !  "  as  loud 
as  she  could.  Her  mother  came  to  the  window 
presently,  and  looked  out. 

"  O,  is  it  you,  Susie  Thompson?"  she  said. 
"  Carrie  isn't  at  home,  dear.  She  went  over  to 
New  York  with  her  papa  this  morning,  and  she 
won't  be  back  before  night,  for  they  are  going  to 
the  Museum  this  afternoon." 

"  O,  dear !  "  exclaimed  Susie.  "  Now  I 
haven't  got  anybody  to  play  with !  I  wish 
I  could  go  to  the  Museum,  too!" 

It  was  not  much  use  to  wish  that,  however ; 
so  Susie  went  across  the  street  again,  feeling 
rather  disconsolate,  and  leaned  her  back  against 
the  iron  railing  of  the  front  yard,  while  she  con- 
sidered what  she  was  going  to  do  with  herself. 
There  was  nobody  out  on  the  sidewalk,  for  the 
snow  had  been  cleared  away  in  front  of  all  the 


12  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

houses,  and  the  boys  had  taken  their  sleds  up  on 
the  avenue,  or  down  to  Fort  Green.  Susie 
could  see  a  group  of  girls  standing  at  the  cor- 
ner watching  them,  and  hear  their  shouts  of 
laughter  as  somebody  got  a  tumble  in  the  snow ; 
but  they  were  all  much  older  and  larger  girls 
than  she  was,  and  she  did  not  care  about  going 
amongst  them. 

"  I  wish  Carrie  hadn't  gone  to  New  York  !  " 
she  said  at  last,  pettishly.  "  It  spoils  all  my  fun, 
and  I  shall  just  have  to  go  into  the  house  again, 
after  I've  had  so  much  trouble,  too,  getting  ready 
to  come  out.  O,  but  I  guess  I  won't,  though  ! " 
for  a  sudden  recollection  came  to  her  of  a  bright, 
new  three-cent  piece  which  her  father  had  given 
her  at  the  breakfast  table  that  morning. 

"  I've  got  my  money  in  my  pocket,  and  I  think 
I'll  go  down  to  Mrs.  Burke's,  and  spend  it." 

Mrs.  Burke  was  the  mistress  of  a  small  shop 
on  the  lower  avenue,  such  a  little  distance  from 
home  that  Susie  was  allowed  to  go  there  by  her- 
self. There  were  many  temptations  in  this  shop 
to  little  people,  and  a  very  little  capital  went  a 
great  way  in  it,  for  "  One  Penny"  was  the  fixed 
price  for  most  of  the  commodities.  The  window 
was  garnished  with  strings  of  beads  all  the  colors 


SUSIE  S   SI.EIGH-RIDE.  13 

of  the  rainbow  —  one  penny  each ;  the  shelves 
were  crowded  with  dolls'  furniture — cradles,  bed- 
steads, chairs,  round  tables,  wash-tubs,  churns, 
and  dust-pans  —  one  cent  apiece;  the  counter 
was  set  out  with  red  and  yellow  sugar  toys, 
peppermint  baskets,  candy  canes,  cocoa-nut 
cakes,  and  twists  of  taffy  —  all,  price  One 
Penny ! 

Susie  could  hardly  tell  how  to  invest  her  three- 
pence among  so  many  attractions.  She  wished 
very  much  for  Carrie's  advice,  but  Carrie  not 
being  there  to  give  it,  she  had  to  decide  for  her- 
self, and  finally  selected  a  peppermint-stick,  a 
string  of  blue  beads,  and  a  very  diminutive 
wash-tub,  with  a  hole  in  each  handle.  What 
she  meant  to  do  with  this  I  cannot  tell,  for  it 
was  not  large  enough  to  wash  the  smallest  size 
doll's  pocket  handkerchief.  She  was  quite  sat- 
isfied with  it,  however,  and  walked  off  admiring 
her  tub  extremely. 

Just  as  she  shut  the  shop  door  behind  her,  a 
milkman's  sleigh  came  jingling  up  the  street; 
and  Susie  stopped  to  look  at  it,  quite  interested, 
for  it  was  not  at  all  like  the  rough-looking  things 
she  had  seen  every  day  since  the  snow  came. 
This  was  much  larger,  and  painted  bright  red 


14  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

all  over:  it  had  two  handsome  horses,  each 
with  a  string  of  silver  bells,  and  on  the  back 
seat,  behind  the  milk-cans,  was  a  buffalo  robe. 
Altogether  it  was  a  very  stylish  turn-out  for  a 
milkman ;  but  Susie  was  more  interested  in  the 
fact  that  three  children  —  two  girls  and  a  boy  — 
were  sitting  close  together  on  this  buffalo  robe, 
all  of  them  smiling  as  if  they  were  in  the  highest 
possible  state  of  enjoyment. 

Of  all  things  in  the  world  Susie  thought  a 
sleigh-ride  was  the  most  delightful.  She  had 
had  about  three  in  her  life,  and  they  were  occa- 
sions never  to  be  forgotten.  It  was  no  wonder, 
then,  that  she  watched  this  happy-looking  party 
with  interest,  and  wished  herself  among  them, 
as  the  sleigh  came  swiftly  towards  her ;  and  she 
was  glad  when  the  milkman  stopped  his  horses 
a  few  doors  from  Mrs.  Burke's,  and  got  out  with 
a  dipper  full  of  milk,  because  it  gave  her  an 
opportunity  to  look  at  them  all  more  nearly. 
The  boy  had  climbed  over  into  the  front  seat  to 
hold  the  reins,  but,  when  he  saw  Susie  standing 
on  the  curb-stone,  he  leaned  back,  and  began  to 
whisper  with  the  two  girls.  Susie  heard  one  of 
them  say, — 

"Yes  —  let  her;  there's  plenty  of  room;" 
and  then  the  boy  called  out,  smiling, — 


SUSIE'S   SLEIGH-RIDE.  15 

"I  say,  Sissy,  would  you  like  to  have  a  ride? 
You  can  jump  in,  if  you  would  ;  he  won't  care." 
"  He "  meaning  the  milkman,  who  was  just 
coming  up  the  basement  steps  with  his  empty 
dipper,  and  heard  what  the  boy  had  said. 

"  Yes,  jump  in,"  he  answered,  with  a  good- 
natured  nod  to  the  little  stranger.  "  I  shall  get 
a  load  by  and  by  if  I  keep  on.  Make  room,  you 
youngsters  there,  for  another  passenger ! " 

And  he  held  out  his  hand  to  help  Susie  in. 
But  she  stood  still,  and  did  not  offer  to  take  it. 
The  suddenness  of  the  invitation  surprised  and 
confused  her,  so  that  she  did  not  know  what  to 
do,  and  could  only  stare  at  the  good-natured 
milkman,  with  a  half-eager,  half-ashamed  look. 

"  Come  on  !  I  can't  wait !  "  he  exclaimed,  a 
little  impatiently.  "  If  you  don't  want  to  get  in, 
say  so ! " 

Susie  could  not  say  that,  for  she  did  wan%  to 
get  in  dreadfully ;  only  she  knew  that  she  ought 
not  to  without  her  mother's  permission.  But 
there  was  no  time  to  get  that,  no  time  even  to 
think  whether  she  would  be  displeased  or  not. 
There  was  only  the  chance  of  a  sleigh-ride,  and, 
if  she  missed  it  now,  she  might  not  have  another 
all  winter ! ' 


1 6  BIRDS   OF  A  FEATHER. 

She  hardly  knew  how  it  happened,  it  was  all 
so  sudden  and  bewildering;  but  in  another 
minute  she  found  herself  in  the  sleigh,  tucked 
in  between  the  two  girls,  who  very  kindly  made 
room  for  her  in  the  middle,  while  the  horses 
shook  their  heads  until  all  the  silver  bells  jingled 
together,  and  away  they  dashed  merrily  up  Clin- 
ton Avenue.  It  seemed  hardly  a  minute  before 
they  were  flying  past  her  own  home.  She 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  mother  sitting  at  the 
nursery  window,  but  Mrs.  Thompson  did  not 
see  her.  It  was  the  last  place  where  she  would 
have  thought  of  looking  for  Susie,  so  she  did  not 
even  glance  up  at  the  sound  of  the  bells ;  and 
the  sleigh  dashed  on  unnoticed,  though  Susie 
had  crouched  down  between  her  companions,  in 
great  fear  of  being  discovered. 

She  began  to  feel  already  that  she  had  done 
wrong,  and  to  wish  that  she  were  out  of  the 
sleigh.  But  she  was  ashamed  to  ask  the  milk- 
man to  stop  just  for  that,  when  he  had  been  so 
kind ;  and  then  the  swift,  gliding  motion  over 
the  snow,  and  the  merry  tinkle  of  the  bells,  were 
so  very  pleasant,  and  the  other  children  seemed 
to  be  so  happy !  Why  shouldn't  she  enjoy  it  as 
well  as  they?  So  she  reasoned  with  herself, 


SUSIE'S   SLEIGH-RIDE.  1 7 

until  she  made  up  her  mind  that  it  was  no  great 
matter  after  all,  and  she  might  as  well  have  a 
nice  time  as  the  others.  She  would  get  out  the 
first  time  he  stopped  to  leave  milk  again,  and 
go  straight  home.  Mamma  wouldn't  care,  she 
knew! 

But  by  the  time  the  milkman  stopped  again, 
Susie  had  got  to  talking  with  the  little  girls,  and 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  getting  out. 

"  I'll  wait  a  little  longer,  and  get  out  next 
time,"  she  thought. 

But  it  was  the  same  thing  at  the  next  stoppage, 
and  the  next ;  the  longer  she  put  it  off,  the  more 
unwilling  she  grew,  till  at  last  she  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  was  quite  too  far  from  home  to 
walk  back,  and  she  would  wait  in  the  sleigh  until 
the  milkman  had  gone  his  round,  and  could 
carry  her  back  himself.  She  never  thought  to 
ask  him  whether  he  meant  to  go  back  the  same 
way  that  he  came :  she  took  that  for  granted, 
and  settled  herself  comfortably  to  enjoy  her  long 
ride. 

So   they   went  on,  farther   and   farther  from 

home,  up  and  down  streets  that  Susie  had  never 

been  into  in  her  life  before,  and  from  which,  left 

to  herself,  she   would   never  have  known  what 

2 


1 8  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

way  to  turn  to  get  home  again.  But  she  gave 
herself  no  concern.  She  felt  extremely  comfort- 
able now  that  she  had  determined  what  to  do, 
and  she  liked  her  companions  so  much  that  she 
did  not  once  remember  Carrie  Pratt  and  the 
Museum.  What  nice  little  girls  they  were  !  she 
thought.  She  must  really  ask  them  what  their 
names  were,  and  coax  her  mamma  to  let  her  go 
to  see  them  some  day.  The  boy,  too,  was  very 
good-natured  ;  he  had  given  her  a  cake  of  maple 
sugar,  "  and  kept  smiling  at  her,"  as  Susie  after- 
wards told  her  mamma,  "  as  if  he  liked  her 
pretty  well."  Which  was  very  likely,  for  Susie's 
rosy  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  were  pretty  enough 
to  make  any  boy  smile  at  them. 

They  stopped  by  and  by  in  front  of  a  large 
grocery  on  Atlantic  Street.  "  Here  you  are, 
Rollo,"  said  the  milkman,  reining  up  his 
horses. 

"  Rollo  I  that's  just  like  a  story-book,"  thought 
Susie.  "  But  I  wonder  what  he's  stopping  here 
for." 

"  Good  by  !  "  Rollo  cried,  jumping  up  quickly. 
"  Much  obliged  for  my  ride,  Mr.  Mickey.  Good 
by,  little  girl !  "  to  Susie.  And  in  a  minute  he  had 
jumped  out  of  the  sleigh  into  the  snow.  And 


SUSIES    SLEIGH-RIDE.  19 

Susie,  looking  back  as  the  horses  started  again, 
saw  him  run  into  the  store,  stamping  the  snow 
from  his  boots  as  he  went. 

"  Is  that  where  he  lives  ? "  she  asked  of  the 
girls. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer.  "  His  father  keeps 
the  grocery ;  and  we  live  down  at  the  next 
corner,  over  the  baker's.  We  are  going  to  get 
out  presently,  too." 

"  Are  you  ? "  said  Susie,  feeling  a  little  dis- 
gusted at  having  been  so  intimate  with  people 
that  lived  in  groceries  and  over  bakers'  shops. 

"Yes;  haven't  we  had  an  elegant  ride?  Mr. 
Mickey  took  us  in  when  he  brought  our  milk 
this  morning,  and  we've  been  all  round  Brook- 
lyn with  him.  Whereabouts  do  you  live,  and 
when  are  you  going  to  get  out?" 

"  O,"  said  Susie,  with  a  little  toss  of  her  head, 
"  I  live  a  great  way  from  here,  in  a  great"  deal 
nicer  street  —  Clinton  Avenue!" 

"Do  you?"  exclaimed  both  the  children  to- 
gether. "That  is  a  long  way  off.  How  shall 
you  ever  get  home?" 

"  Why,"  said  Susie,  beginning  to  feel  uncom- 
fortable, "  I  shall  get  home  just  as  you  do.  The 
milkman  will  take  me  back,  of  course." 


20  BIRDS   OF   A  FEATHER. 

The  two  girls  looked  at  each  other,  and 
laughed,  when  Susie  said  this ;  and  the  milk- 
man, who  had  been  listening  to  the  conversation, 
turned  round,  and  looked  at  her,  too,  in  a  way 
she  did  not  like  at  all.  She  felt  her  face  grow- 
ing red  with  shame  and  vexation  ;  but  she  said, 
half  proudly,  in  answer  to  his  look,  — 

"  I'm  going  to  wait  in  the  sleigh  till  you  go 
back  again  the  same  way  you  came.  It's  too  far 
for  me  to  walk  home." 

The  man  smiled.  u  I'm  afraid  you'll  get  tired 
of  waiting,  Sissy,"  he  answered.  "  I  shan't  go 
back  that  way  till  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Then  how  am  I  to  get  home  ? "  Susie  ex- 
claimed, ready  to  cry.  "  It's  so  far,  and  I  don't 
even  know  the  way  !  " 

"Don't  you?  I'm  sorry  for  that;  but  why 
didn't  you  get  out  sooner  ?  I  thought  you  were 
taking  it  pretty  easy ;  but  then  I  supposed  you 
knew  what  you  were  about." 

"  I  thought  you  would  come  back,  of  course," 
said  Susie,  angrily,  and  trying  hard  to  choke 
down  a  great  sob  that  was  rising  in  her  throat. 

"  But  you  ought  to  have  asked  me  about  that 
before  you  came  so  far.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't 
possibly  take  you  back.  I've  got  to  be  in  New 


SUSIE  S   SI.EIGH-RIDE.  2 1 

York  by  one  o'clock,  and  it  is  half-past  twelve 
now.  It's  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  get  over  the 
ferry  in  time." 

He  did  not  speak  crossly,  and  evidently  felt 
very  sorry  for  her ;  but  still  his  words  were  so 
decided  that  Susie  saw  there  was  no  sort  of  hope. 
She  sat  still  without  answering,  and  looked  the 
picture  of  despair.  Her  lips  quivered,  her  color 
came  and  went,  in  her  distress  and  mortification, 
while  the  great  tears  would  crowd  up  to  her  eyes, 
though  she  dashed  them  away  so  proudly. 

The  children  looked  at  her  pityingly,  but  they 
did  not  know  what  to  say  to  her.  The  milkman 
asked,  presently, — 

"Whereabouts  did  you  say  you  lived?  Clin- 
ton Street,  or  Clinton  Avenue?" 

"  Clinton  Avenue,  near  Myrtle,"  said  Susie, 
trying  to  speak  distinctly. 

"  Whew !  it's  miles  away  ! "  he  muttered,  un- 
der his  breath.  "If  it  was  Clinton  Street,  a 
body  might  do  something  for  her,  but  it's  no  use 
thinking  of  it.  You'd  better  get  out  here,"  he 
added  aloud,  drawing  up  his  horses  in  front  of 
the  bakery,  "  and  I'll  tell  you  how  to  get  home. 
There's  Court  Street,  you  see,  just  above.  Now, 
when  you  get  there,  turn  to  your  left,  and  walk 


22  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

straight  along  till  you  come  to  the  City  Hall  — 
you  know  that  when  you  see  it,  don't  you? 
Then  keep  on  for  a  block  farther,  and  you'll  be 
in  Fulton  Street.  When  you  get  there,  look  out 
for  a  blue  car,  —  the  blue  cars  go  up  Myrtle  Ave- 
nue,—  and  if  you  follow  their  track,  you'll  get 
home  safe.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

Susie  nodded  her  head.  She  could  not  have 
spoken  without  sobbing,  and  she  was  too  proud 
to  let  him  see  her  cry.  He  helped  them  all  out 
of  the  sleigh,  saying  again, — 

"You're  sure  you  understand?  down  Court  to 
Fulton,  and  then  follow  the  blue  car.  By  the 
way,  you'd  better  get  into  it,  and  ride  home  ;  I'll 
give  you  some  change  ;  "  and  he  began  to  fumble 
in  his  pocket  for  pennies. 

But  this  was  more  than  Susie  could  submit  to. 
Take  money  from  him  'f  No,  indeed !  She 
found  voice  enough  to  utter  a  rather  scornful 
refusal,  and  Mr.  Mickey  withdrew  his  hand, 
saying,  carelessly, — 

"  All  right,  if  you  don't  want  it.  Better  take 
my  advice,  though,  and  ride  home  in  the  car. 
It's  a  long  stretch  for  little  feet.  Don't  lose 
yourself,  whatever  you  do ;  I  can't  stop  any 
longer." 


SUSIE'S    SLEIGH-RIDE.  23 

With  this  he  drove  off,  and  the  poor  little  waif 
was  left  standing  on  the  sidewalk  of  this  noisy, 
bustling,  unfamiliar  street,  without  a  single 
friend  to  turn  to  for  help  or  guidance.  The 
two  little  girls  lingered  by  her,  full  of  compas- 
sion, but  as  perplexed  and  confused  as  herself. 
One  of  them  took  a  bright  thought  presently, 
and  said,  kindly, — 

"  Come  into  our  house,  and  stay  with  mother  a 
little  while.  Maybe  she'll  know  somebody 
that's  going  your  way  —  and  she'll  give  you 
some  dinner  anyhow.  You  must  be  hungry." 

But  Susie  was  much  too  miserable  to  be 
hungry.  She  only  wanted  to  get  home  as  fast 
as  possible,  and  she  had  no  faith  in  their  moth- 
er's power  to  help  her.  She  said  No  to  all  their 
kind  offers,  and  hurried  away  in  the  direction 
the  milkman  had  told  her  to  take,  though  she 
had  no  very  clear  idea  of  his  instructions  after 
all. 

She  did  remember  to  turn  to  the  left  when 
she  reached  Court  Street,  and  walked  on  prop- 
erly enough  towards  the  City  Hall.  It  is  not  a 
long  walk  to  one  familiar  with  the  way,  but  it 
seemed  an  age  to  Susie  before  the  tall  white 
building,  standing  in  its  snow-covered  enclosure, 


24  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

loomed  up  before  her  eyes.  She  thought  she 
must  have  gone  wrong  half  a  dozen  times,  but 
the  welcome  landmark  appeared  at  last,  and  she 
felt  for  a  moment  as  if  she  had  come  to  the  end 
of  her  troubles,  only  to  find  the  next  moment 
that  she  had  but  reached  the  beginning  of  them  ; 
for  when  she  had  crossed  the  square,  she  saw  so 
many  streets  all  running  together  there,  so  many 
cars  of  all  colors  going  backwards  and  forwards, 
such  a  crowd  of  people  and  vehicles  hurrying 
past  her  in  every  possible  direction,  that  she  felt 
utterly  bewildered,  and  could  not  have  told,  to 
save  her  life,  which  way  she  ought  to  turn. 

Two  or  three  times  she  tried  to  stop  some 
passer-by  to  ask  for  direction ;  but  her  timid 
voice  was  unheard,  or  unheeded,  in  the  noonday 
throng ;  and  at  last,  in  perfect  desperation,  she 
darted  across  the  railroad  track,  dodging  the 
horses  as  best  she  could,  and  turned  into  the  first 
street  she  saw.  There  was  no  name  to  be  seen, 
but  she  hoped  it  might  be  the  right  one,  and 
hurried  on  as  fast  as  her  weary  feet  could  carry 
her,  looking  eagerly  as  she  went  for  the  blue  car 
which  was  to  be  her  guide.  No  blue  car  met  her 
eyes,  however.  Cheap,  second-hand  stores  were 
on  either  side  of  the  way.  Dirty,  disagreeable 


SUSIE'S    SLEIGH-RIDE.  2$ 

children  played  on  the  narrow,  steep  sidewalk, 
and  carts  and  drays  rattled  noisily  through  the 
middle  of  the  street. 

Block  after  block  was  passed,  and  Susie  quick- 
ened her  pace  almost  to  a  run,  hoping  to  get 
into  a  nicer  neighborhood.  But  it  grew  worse 
instead  of  better,  and  at  last,  just  as  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  ask  somebody  where  she 
was,  she  saw,  directly  in  front  of  her,  at  the  foot 
of  the  street,  a  long,  low  building,  with  arched 
gateways,  and  above  them,  in  large  letters,— 
"  Catharine  Ferry." 

Poor  Susie !  She  was  more  utterly  at  a  loss 
than  ever  now  ;  and  tired,  cold,  and  perfectly 
discouraged,  she  stopped  outright,  and  burst  into 
tears.  People  were  coming  up  from  the  ferry, 
and  a  common-looking  woman,  with  a  baby  in 
her  arms,  stopped  to  ask  what  was  the  matter. 
As  plainly  as  she  could  speak  for  crying,  Susie 
explained  that  she  wanted  to  find  the  way  to 
Fulton  Street.  And  the  woman  said,  rather 
roughly,  — 

"  Come  on,  then,  and  I'll  show  you,  but  stop 
crying  about  it !  I  don't  know  what  people  are 
thinking  of  to  trust  such  children  out  in  the 
streets." 


26  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

"  If  she  only  knew  !  "  Susie  thought,  half  re- 
senting the  imputation  upon  her  mother.  But 
the  woman  asked  no  questions,  —  her  baby  was 
fretting,  and  all  her  attention  was  given  to  that, 
—  so  Susie  followed  her  in  silence,  retracing  her 
steps  until  she  had  almost  reached  the  point 
from  which  she  had  started. 

"There,  now,"  said  the  woman,  pointing  ahead, 
"  I  must  get  my  baby  home,  so  I  can't  go  any 
farther  with  you.  But  if  you'll  keep  on  another 
block,  and  then  turn  to  your  right,  you'll  be  in 
Fulton  Street." 

Susie  thanked  her,  and  hurried  on,  beginning 
to  feel  hopeful  once  more,  in  spite  of  her  flag- 
ging strength,  and  her  feet  and  hands  aching 
with  cold.  She  was  very  careful  to  obey  the 
direction  of  turning  to  the  right,  and,  in  a  few 
minutes  more,  her  eyes  were  gladdened  by  the 
sight  for  which  she  had  so  eagerly  longed  —  a 
blue  car.  She  was  all  right  now,  she  thought, 
with  a  bound  of  hope  and  relief;  and  a  new 
energy  seemed  to  come  into  her  poor  little  feet 
as  she  walked  firmly  after  the  car,  keeping  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  it  as  long  as  it  was  in  sight. 

But  alas  for  Susie  !  he/  mistakes  were  not  over 
yet,  and  she  had  made  one  now  still  worse  than 


SUSIE'S    SLEIGH-RIDE.  2f 

the  last.  She  was  following  the  blue  car,  to  be 
sure,  but  it  was  running  the  wrong  way  for  her. 
Instead  of  going  up  Myrtle  Avenue,  it  was  roll- 
ing serenely  down  Fulton  Street  to  the  ferry,  and 
every  eager  step  the  child  took  was  carrying  her 
farther  and  farther  away  from  home.  She  was 
so  confused  by  all  her  mishaps  that  she  never 
thought  of  up  or  down  :  there  was  only  one  idea 
left  in  her  mind,  which  was  that  she  must  follow 
that  particular  car.  Beyond  that  she  considered 
nothing. 

So  she  plodded  on,  feeling  very,  very  tired, 
but  keeping  up  her  courage  with  the  hope  of 
soon  being  at  home.  Her  fingers,  in  spite  of  the 
Solferino  mittens,  were  stiff  with  cold,  and  al- 
ready beginning  to  ache  with  that  stinging  pain 
every  child  can  remember ;  her  feet  were  a  little 
better,  thanks  to  the  thick  leggins  and  overshoes, 
but  her  nose  was  frosty,  and  her  cheeks  fairly 
tingled  in  the  keen,  cold  air  to  which  they 
had  been  so  long  exposed.  It  was  growing 
colder,  too,  for  she  had  lost  a  good  deal  of  time 
in  her  expedition  down  to  Catharine  Ferry,  and 
the  short  winter  afternoon  was  fast  wearing 
away. 

Susie  began  to  feel,  with  dismay,  how  late  it 


25  BIRDS    OF    A   FEATHER. 

was  growing,  and  she  did  her  best  to  make  haste, 
not  even  stopping  to  look  in  at  any  of  the  large 
plate-glass  windows  that  displayed  gay  toys  and 
tempting  confectionery  to  her  view.  She  was 
very  hungry,  but  she  hardly  thought  of  it  in  her 
anxiety  to  get  to  the  end  of  her  journey ;  and  so 
she  kept  on  without  pausing,  until  her  tired  feet 
actually  could  go  no  farther,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  stop  for  a  few  minutes  to  rest. 

People  stared  at  her  as  she  sat  on  a  carriage- 
block  close  to  the  curb-stone,  looking  so  weary 
and  forlorn,  but  nobody  spoke  to  her.  It  was 
cold  and  late,  and  every  one  had  his  own  busi- 
ness to  attend  to.  So  the  living  tide  flowed  past, 
and  the  poor  little  wanderer  dragged  herself  up 
after  a  few  minutes'  rest,  and  marched  on  once 
more.  But  she  had  to  stop  again  soon,  for  her 
strength  was  so  spent  that  she  could  hardly  drag 
one  foot  after  the  other.  And  worse  still,  a 
dreadful  fear  had  begun  to  creep  into  her  mind. 
Everything  about  her  was  so  strange  and  un- 
familiar still ;  yet  surely,  before  this  time,  she 
ought  to  have  got  into  a  neighborhood  that  she 
would  know.  O  !  could  she  have  gone  wrong 
again,  after  all? 

It  was  such  a  terrible  thought  that  it  made  the 


SUSIE  S    SLEIGH-RIDE.  29 

child  sick  with  despair,  and  she  leaned  against  a 
lamp-post  for  a  moment,  so  faint  and  dizzy  that 
she  was  afraid  of  falling.  Only  for  a  moment, 
though.  A  desperate  feeling  that  she  must  keep 
on  and  know  the  worst,  took  possession  of  her, 
and  she  started  in  a  run  down  the  steep  side- 
walk. A  glimpse  of  water  in  the  distance,  and 
the  white  sails  of  ships,  made  her  stop  suddenly 
before  she  had  gone  one  block,  and  at  the  same 
moment  the  ding-dong  of  the  boat  bell  struck 
upon  her  ear,  leaving  no  longer  a  shadow  of 
doubt.  She  had  walked  all  the  way  down  to 
Fulton  Ferry  ! 

.  Susie  could  not  remember  very  distinctly  what 
happened  after  this.  She  felt  so  stunned  and 
hopeless  that  she  walked  on  as  if  she  had  been 
blind  for  a  few  minutes,  and  was  jostled,  and 
pushed,  and  almost  knocked  down  by  the  rough 
men  and  boys  who  were  hurrying  up  from  the 
ferry,  without  making  an  effort  to  get  out  of  their 
way.  She  found  herself,  presently,  down  by  the 
gates,  in  the  midst  of  the  throng  pouring  off 
from  the  boat  which  had  just  come  in.  People 
were  pushing  and  crowding  as  if  their  lives 
depended  upon  getting  ahead  of  one  another ; 
horses  were  stamping,  and  drivers  shouting  and 


30  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

swearing,  and  the  newsboys  deafening  one's  ears 
with  their  shrill  cries  ;  but  Susie  staggered  on,  as 
if  she  neither  saw  nor  heard  anything.  She  was 
just  stepping  forward  in  front  of  the  great  gates, 
where  the  long  string  of  carts  and  carriages  were 
passing  through  ;  they  followed  one  another  as 
fast  as  possible  without  regard  to  foot  passengers, 
and  the  bewildered  child  would  almost  certainly 
have  been  knocked  down  by  the  horses  if  some- 
body in  the  crowd  had  not  snatched  her  back. 

"  You  foolish  little  thing !  Do  you  want  to 
get  yourself  run  over  and  killed  ?  " 

The  voice  was  not  very  kind,  for  the  gentle- 
man was  provoked  by  what  he  thought  was  such 
reckless  daring  on  the  child's  part.  But  no 
sweeter  music  ever  rang  in  poor  little  Susie 
Thompson's  ears  than  those  rough  words !  She 
turned  round  with  a  scream  of  joy,  — 

"  O,  papa  !  papa  !  Don't  you  know  me?  I'm 
Susie ! " 

And  in  another  moment  she  was  clasped 
tightly  in  her  father's  arms,  sobbing  as  if  her 
heart  would  break  in  her  wild  excitement  at 
such  unlooked-for  relief.  You  can  imagine  her 
father's  astonishment,  and  how  everj-body  staved 
and  wondered  at  such  a  scene.  Mr.  Thompson 


SUSIES    SLEIGH-RIDE.  31 

did  not  stop  to  ask  questions,  but  dashed  in  front 
of  the  horses  himself,  with  Susie  in  his  arms, 
and  sprang  into  the  blue  car  that  stood  close  by, 
before  she  had  time  to  take  a  breath.  The  horses 
started  at  once,  and  at  last  she  was  really  on  her 
way  home  ! 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  could  lift  up  her 
face  from  her  father's  shoulder,  where  she  had 
first  hidden  it,  or  quiet  her  sobbing  enough  to 
tell  him  her  pitiful  story.  When  she  looked  up 
at  last,  there  was  a  little  warm  hand  clasping 
hers,  and  who  should  be  there  but  Carrie  Pratt, 
sitting  on  her  father's  knee,  just  beside  them,  and 
gazing  at  Susie  with  the  most  wondering,  and 
anxious,  and  compassionate  eyes !  She  was 
just  coming  home  after  her  long,  happy  day, 
seeing  sights  in  New  York,  and  she  little  knew 
how  wretchedly  the  same  time  had  been  spent 
by  her  playmate,  though  she  saw  something  ter- 
rible had  happened. 

Susie  managed  to  tell  her  story  at  last,  and 
every  one  pitied  her  so  much  that  she  did  not 
get  a  great  deal  of  scolding,  —  not  half  so  much 
as  she  felt  she  deserved  ;  especially  when  they  got 
home,  and  found  her  mother  almost  crazy  about 
her,  while  all  the  servants  of  the  house  were 


32  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

roaming  the  streets,  far  and  near,  in  search  of 
her. 

Susie  has  had  more  than  one  sleigh-ride  since, 
but  never  another  like  that.  She  says  she  will 
never  forget  it  as  long  as  she  lives ;  and  I  rather 
think  the  lesson  it  taught  her  will  do  her  good.  At 
any  rate,  she  has  never  since  done  anything,  of 
the  propriety  of  which  she  was  not  quite  sure, 
without  first  asking  mamma. 


KITTY'S  VALENTINE. 

KITTY  GRAYSON'S  father  was  the  most 
charming  father  in  the  world.  At  least 
that  was  Kitty's  firm  belief,  and  I  don't  deny  that 
she  had  excellent  reasons  for  it.  The  lovely 
picture-books  and  story-books  that  crowded  the 
nursery  shelves,  the  innumerable  dolls  that  filled 
the  baby-house,  the  oranges  and  sugar-plums  that 
were  forever  coming  home  in  his  pockets,  were 
all  arguments  in  favor  of  Kitty's  theory,  that  no 
little  girl  would  have  disputed.  And  in  addition 
to  all  this,  whenever  she  asked  him  for  a  penny,  — 
which  she  frequently  did,  in  spite  of  having 
everything  that  she  could  want  already,  —  he 
gave  her  two,  or  five,  and  sometimes  ten.  Now, 
if  this  was  not  being  charming,  I  wonder  what 
under  the  sun  could  be ! 

It  was  singular,  however,  that  Kitty's  mother 
was  not  altogether  pleased  with  Kitty's  father,  as 
her  father.  She  liked  him  very  much  indeed  on 

her  own  account,  but  she  often  said  to  herself,  — 
2  (33) 


34  BIRDS   OF  A  FEATHER. 

"  He  will  spoil  this  little  girl  of  ours,  I  am 
sadly  afraid.  It  is  not  good  for  any  one  to  be  so 
indulged,  and  it  will  surely  make  her  selfish  and 
disagreeable  in  the  end." 

So  in  order,  if  possible,  to  prevent  this  unfor- 
tunate result,  she  tried  to  teach  Kitty  some  lessons 
of  self-denial. 

One  day  the  little  girl  ran  into  tlje  nursery 
holding  up  a  tiny  square  of  purplish-looking 
paper,  with  a  head  of  Washington  on  the  face, 
and  "  25 "  in  large  figures  on  the  back.  Her 
mother  recognized  it  as  the  "  fractional  curren- 
cy," supposed  to  be  an  improvement  on  old- 
fashioned  silver  quarters,  and  was  not  slow  to 
guess  how  Kitty  came  by  it,  even  before  her 
triumphant  outcry,  — 

"Just  look,  mamma !  I  asked  papa  for  a  pen- 
ny, and  he  gave  me  all  this  —  a  whole  quar- 
ter ! " 

"  I  dare  say  he  did,"  said  her  mother.  "  You 
and  papa  together  waste  a  good  deal  of  money, 
Miss  Kitty." 

"  But  I  shan't  waste  this,"  said  Kitty,  "  I  shall 
spend  it." 

"I  dare  say,"  her  mother  repeated.  "And 
what  do  you  propose  to  buy  ? " 


KITTY'S  VALENTINE.  35 

"A  valentine,  of  course,"  Kitty  replied, 
promptly.  "  To-morrow  is  St.  Valentine's 
Day." 

"And  what  will  you  do  with  a  valentine?" 

"  O,  I  don't  know  !  Have  some  fun  with  it  — 
send  it  to  somebody,  maybe.  Everybody  buys 
valentines." 

"  I  don't  think  everybody  does,"  her  mother 
answered,  quietly.  "  Very  few  sensible  people 
do ;  and  if  I  were  in  your  place,  Kitty,  I  would 
not  throw  away  twenty-five  cents  for  a  thing  that 
can  give  neither  pleasure  nor  profit  to  anybody." 

"  You  always  say  that  sort  of  thing ! "  ex- 
claimed Kitty,  pettishly.  "  Papa  doesn't.  He 
tells  me  to  buy  what  I  please." 

"  Perhaps  he  doesn't  know  that  you  often 
please  to  buy  foolish  things." 

"  It  is  my  own  money,  at  any  rate,"  said 
Kitty,  rather  sullenly. 

"  Certainly  it  is  ;  and  I  shall  not  forbid  you  to 
spend  it  for  a  valentine.  I  only  ad-vise  you  not 
to,  because  it  will  be  wasting  money  that  might 
be  spent  for  a  good  purpose." 

"But  there  isn't  anything  else  I  want,"  said 
Kitty. 

"  Is  there  no  one  in  the  world  who  docs  want 
something  else?" 


36  BIRDS   OF  A  FEATHER. 

Kitty  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know,"  she  began,  pertly ;  and  just  then 
the  baby  in  the  cradle  waked  up  with  a  cry, 
and  Mrs.  Grayson  had  to  take  him.  So  the 
talk  ended. 

Kitty  slipped  out  of  the  room,  feeling  dissatis. 
fied,  and  rather  uncomfortable,  but  not  at  all  dis- 
posed to  give  up  her  own  way.  She  wandered 
about  the  house  for  a  while,  not  knowing  what  to 
do  with  herself,  and  finally  put  on  her  hat  and 
cloak,  and  went  out  on  the  sidewalk.  It  was 
pleasant  weather  for  the  season,  so  that  several 
of  her  playmates  were  already  out,  and  she  was 
warmly  welcomed  by  the  little  group.  They 
were  tired  of  playing  "  tag,"  and  were  walking 
up  and  down  now,  with  their  arms  around  one 
another,  in  little  girl  fashion  ;  and  as  fate  would 
have  it,  the  subject  of  conversation  was  the  very 
one  in  which  Kitty  was  so  much  interested. 

Lizzie  Tracy's  papa  had  bought  her  "  the  most 
lovely  valentine,"  and  Josie  Ridgeway  was  going 
to  buy  one  for  herself,  and  Mamie  Burton  had 
been  round  to  Rose's,  and,  O,  you  never  saw 
such  beauties  in  all  your  life !  Silver  darts 
sticking  through  golden  hearts,  and  doves 
perched  upon  wreaths  of  flowers,  and  the  bor- 


KITTY'S   VALENTINE.  37 

ders  of  the  paper  just  like  real  lace  !  and  besides 
that,  some  of  them  were  so  comical  you  would 
die  laughing  ;  and  wouldn't  it  be  awful  funny  to 
get  one  of  those  ridiculous  things,  and  slip  it 
under  Fanny  Woodward's  door?  She  would 
think  Harry  Ogden  sent  it,  and,  O,  wouldn't  she 
be  mad? 

With  all  this  silly  talk  Kitty  was  greatly 
amused  and  interested ;  and  you  may  be  sure 
she  soon  announced  the  fact  that  she  had  twenty- 
five  cents  of  her  own,  and  could  buy  a  valentine 
if  she  chose. 

It  isn't  necessary  to  say  that  nobody  advised 
her  not  to :  in.  fact,  it  was  the  general  opinion 
that  she  could  not  possibly  do  better  with  her 
money.  Josie  Ridgeway  had  ten  cents  to  invest 
in  the  same  way ;  so  it  was  proposed  that  the 
whole  party  should  proceed  to  Rose's  immedi- 
ately, and  the  proposition  was  unanimously  car- 
ried. Kitty  had  sometimes  been  allowed  to  go 
alone  to  Rose's  fancy  store,  in  Atlantic  Street, 
which  was  only  two  or  three  blocks  distant. 
She  did  not  feel  obliged,  therefore,  to  ask  he* 
mother's  permission,  and  the  last  opportunity  to 
profit  by  her  advice  was  thus  avoided. 


38  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

The  four  little  girls  went  merrily  together  to 
the  tempting  spot,  and  were  soon  in  a  state  of 
delightful  bewilderment,  not  knowing^  how  to 
choose  from  the  endless  variety  that  was  spread 
before  them.  The  silver  arrows  and  lace  bor- 
ders were  voted  "  sweet"  and  "  splendid  ;  "  but 
the  "  comic "  style  seemed,  after  all,  to  be  more 
attractive.  The  children  hovered  round  the 
ridiculous  caricatures,  and  laughed  over  them 
as  much  as  if  they  had  been  really  funny,  in- 
stead of  being,  as  they  were,  merely  coarse. 
Josie  Ridgeway  was  fascinated  by  a  fat  Cupid, 
dancing  on  a  barrel,  with  the  motto  below,  — 

"Bourbon  whiskey  and  brandy-wine, 
You're  my  sweetest  valentine.' 

Her  ten  cents  was  finally  exchanged  for  that 
witty  work  of  art ;  and  then  Kitty's  attention 
was  directed  to  the  picture  of  a  long-nosed  and 
ancient  looking  maiden  lady,  in  a  very  low- 
necked  dress,  with  two  extremely  sharp  elbows 
sticking  out  from  her  short  sleeves.  Above  this 
interesting  portrait  was  the  name,  "  Miss  Fanny 
Faintaway ; "  below  it  were  the  following  irre- 
sistible lines:  — 


KITTYS    VALENTINE.  39 

"  Two  beaux  Miss  Faintaway  can  show, 
A.nd  from  her  side  they  never  go ; 
Yet  still  in  vain  she'll  sigh  and  pine, 
She'll  never  get  a  Valentine ! 
For  why  ?    The  truth  is  this,  my  dear, 
So  sharp  her  elbows  do  appear, 
No  other  beau  dares  venture  near!  " 

This  pointed  joke  was  considered  so  very 
amusing,  that  Kitty  willingly  parted  with  her 
quarter  to  become  the  possessor  of  Miss  Fainta- 
way  ;  and  they  all  went  home  again  in  great 
glee. 

The  luncheon  bell  was  ringing  just  as  she 
reached  her  own  door,  and  she  went  in  to  meet 
her  mother  with  a  half  ashamed  and  half  defiant 
feeling.  Mrs.  Gray  son  looked  at  the  coarse  daub 
which  Kitty  held  up  to  her,  but  made  no  com- 
ment upon  it. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  quite  satisfied  with  it,  my 
dear,"  was  all  she  said  ;  but  there  was  something 
in  her  quiet  tone  that  made  the  little  girl  feel 
uncomfortable.  Was  she  quite  satisfied  with  it, 
after  all?  She  began  to  doubt  it,  and  the  more 
she  looked  at  the  coarse,  staring  thing,  the  less 
satisfaction  she  felt  in  it. 

However,  she  did  not  choose  to  acknowledge 


40  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

this,  even  to  herself,  and  the  "  funny  "  plan  that 
Mamie  Burton  had  proposed  was  yet  to  be  carried 
out.  So  after  lunch,  which  she  did  not  enjoy  as 
much  as  usual  to-day,  in  spite  of  the  cold  chicken 
and  mince  pie,  Kitty  went  up  stairs  and  found 
an  envelope,  in  which  she  enclosed  Miss  Fanny 
Faintaway.  She  sealed  it  up  with  a  fancy  mot- 
to, and  wrote  on  the  outside,  — 

"  To  Missfany  ivudard. 

St.  -valentine's  day" 

The  bad  spelling  was  intended  to  be  a  dis- 
guise, and  Kitty's  playmates  were  much  amused 
when  she  took  out  the  precious  document  for 
their  benefit.  Mamie  Burton  undertook  to  see  it 
safely  delivered  ;  and  Kitty  laughed  in  secret  all 
the  afternoon,  as  she  thought  of  Fanny  Wood- 
ward's vexation  when  she  should  open  the  val- 
entine. 

She  went  out  on  the  sidewalk  the  next  morn- 
ing, eager  to  meet  the  girls  and  enjoy  the  fun. 
But  it  did  not  turn  out  so  funnily  as  she  had 
anticipated.  Either  Mamie  Burton,  or  some 
other  one  of  the  party,  had  betrayed  her,  or 
else  Fanny  had  guessed  at  Kitty's  handwriting. 


KITTYS    VALENTINE.  41 

However  it  was,  Fanny  met  her  with  a  very 
dignified  air,  and  handed  back  to  her  the 
"  comic  "  valentine. 

"  My  mamma  doesn't  wish  to  have  such  vul- 
gar things  about  the  house,"  she  said,  with  a 
most  stately  and  "  superior "  manner.  "  So  I 
beg  leave  to  return  your  valentine,  Miss  Kitty 
Grayson,  and  it  will  save  you  the  trouble  of 
buying  another  for  somebody  else." 

With  which  withering  speech  she  went  back 
to  her  own  house,  and  she  never  spoke  to  Kitty 
again  for  a  fortnight.  On  the  whole,  the  fun 
was  rather  a  failure,  and  Kitty  began  to  wish 
she  had  taken  her  mother's  advice  when  she 
realized  the  unpleasant  consequences  of  the  joke. 
She  wished  it  still  more  by  and  by,  for  Fanny's 
anger  was  not  the  worst  thing  that  happened. 

.One  day  she  had  been  to  Rose's  to  buy  a  slate- 
pencil,  and  on  her  way  home  her  attention  was 
attracted  by  a  little  girl  who  sat  on  a  door-step, 
crying  bitterly.  The  child  did  not  look  like  a 
beggar :  her  clothes  were  neat,  though  well  worn 
and  patched  ;  and  her  face  had  neither  the  bold 
nor  sly  look  which  are  seen  so  often  on  these 
little  prematurely  old  and  cunning  street  beggars. 
Kitty  —  a  child  herself — felt  the  difference,  and 


42  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

knew  the  grief,  whatever  caused  it,  was  gen- 
uine. 

She  stopped,  full  of  pity  and -concern,  —  for 
she  was  tender-hearte'd  in  spite  of  her  self-indul- 
gent habits,  —  and  asked  very  kindly  and  sympa- 
thizingly  what  the  matter  was.  In  answer  came 
a  pitiful  story.  They  had  a  sick  baby  at  home, 
the  little  stranger  said,  and  her  mother  had  sent 
her  to  the  drug-store  with  twenty-five  cents,  to 
buy  some  medicine.  But  the  pavement  was 
slippery,  and  she  fell  down ;  the  money  flew  out 
of  her  hand,  and  some  bad  boys  that  saw  her 
fall  snatched  it  up  before  she  could  reach  it,  and 
ran  off  with  it.  She  ran  after  them,  and  cried, 
and  begged  them  to  give  it  back  to  her,  but  they 
would  not  listen  to  her,  and  she  could  not  over- 
take them. 

"  And  now  I  don't  know  what  to  do  !  I  don't 
know  what  to  do ! "  the  poor  little  creature 
sobbed,  in  her  bitter  distress. 

Kitty  looked  at  her  in  sorrowful  perplexity. 
"  Why  don't  you  go  home  and  get  some  more 
money?"  she  asked,  presently. 

"  I  can't !  "  moaned  the  child.  "  There  isn't 
any  more,  not  till  mother  gets  paid,  Saturday 
night.  Mother's  poor,  and  the  man  at  the  drug- 


KITTY  S    VALENTINE.  43 

store  won't  trust  her.  O,  my  poor  little  brother, 
I  know  he'll  die  !  " 

And  the  child  wrung  her  hands,  and  sobbed 
so  pitifully,  that  Kitty  was  heart-broken  to  see 
her,  and  to  feel  that  she  could  not  help  her. 
That  was  the  worst  of  it —  the  remembrance 
that  she  might  have  helped  her.  If  only  she 
had  kept  that  quarter,  instead  of  spending  it  for 
the  horrid  valentine !  If  only  she  had  listened 
to  her  mother's  kind  advice ! 

But  such  wishes  were  worse  than  useless  now? 
and  Kitty  was  obliged  to  pass  on,  and  leave  the 
poor  child  as  wretched  as  she  found  her.  It 
never  occurred  to  her  to  bring  her  home,  and 
ask  her  mother  to  give  her  the  money.  At 
any  other  time  that  would  have  been  her  first 
thought ;  but  she  was  so  full  of  regret  and  self- 
reproach  in  remembering  what  she  might  have 
done  herself,  if  she  had  not  been  so  wilful,  that 
she  could  not  think  of  anything  else. 

So  the  only  opportunity  that  remained  to  her 
was  neglected  ;  and  she  never  knew  whether  the 
poor  little  baby  lived  or  died.  She  thought 
about  it  many  a  time :  the  picture  of  the  weep- 
ing child  —  no  older  than  herself,  but  so  differ- 
ent !  —  came  up  in  the  midst  of  her  merriest 


44  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

play,  and  made  her  heart  ache  with  a  pain  that 
she  had  never  felt  before. 

It  was  a  pain,  however,  that  had  a  wholesome 
effect.  She  began  to  see,  at  last,  that  living  only 
to  please  one's  self  is  not  at  all  the  best  or  the 
happiest  life ;  to  comprehend,  also,  something 
of  her  own  responsibility  in  improving  the  op- 
portunities for  doing  good  that  came  in  her  way. 

Her  mother  found  her  a  more  willing  listener 
after  this,  when  she  suggested  some  little  act  of 
self-denial ;  and,  under  her  careful  guidance, 
Kitty  found  so  many  good  uses  for  the  little  sums 
she  saved,  and  so  much  real  pleasure  in  using 
them  thus,  that  Mrs.  Grayson  had  soon  no  fear 
that  her  little  girl  would  grow  up  selfish  and 
disagreeable. 

Miss  Fanny  Faintaway  was  kept  in  a  drawer, 
by  way  of  remembrance  ;  and  Kitty's  Valentine 
is  still  preserved  as  Kitty's  first  lesson  in  Moral 
Responsibility. 


SAM'S  PUNISHMENT. 

SAM  and  Mattie  Gordon  were  finishing  their 
breakfast  one  bright  summer  morning.  The 
.extension-table  was  reduced  to  its  smallest  dimen- 
sions, and  only  two  cups  and  saucers  appeared 
on  the  coffee-tray.  These,  moreover,  were  there 
for  ornament  rather  than  use ;  for  Mattie  and 
Sam  were  the  only  guests  at  the  table,  and  the 
silver  cups  that  stood  beside  their  plates  had 
been  replenished  from  the  milk-pitcher,  and  not 
the  coffee-urn. 

"  It's  rather  funny  having  breakfast  all  to  our- 
selves," said  Mattie  presently.  "I  suppose 
papa  and  mamma  are  a  hundred  miles  away 
by  this  time." 

"  More  than  that,"  said  Sam,  "  if  they  trav- 
elled all  night,  as  they  meant  to.  I  wonder  if 
Job's  troubles  are  really  coming  to  an  end,  at 
last !  " 

"  O,  Sam  !  aren't%  you  ashamed  of  yourself?  " 
cried  Mattie,  half  laughing,  half  shocked. 

(45) 


46  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

"What  for?  Isn't  his  name  Job,  and  hasn't 
he  always  been  in  trouble,  with  rheumatism  or 
something,  ever  since  we  heard  of  him?  I'm 
sure  it's  always  been  '  poor  uncle  Job '  since 
I  could  remember.'* 

"  Never  mind ;  he's  papa's  uncle,  for  all  that, 
and  we  ought  to  be  respectful,"  said  Mattie,  se- 
dately. "  The  telegram  said  '  no  hope  of  recov- 
ery,' so  I  suppose  he  will  die  before  they  come 
back." 

"  I  hope  he'll  leave  me  his  gold  watch,"  said 
Sam. 

"  I'd  rather  have  the  old  Indian  cabinet  that 
I've  heard  papa  talk  about,  with  those  wonderful 
bugs  and  beetles,  you  know,  and  the  shells  and 
precious  stones.  But  hurry  up,  Sam  ;  it's  almost 
school-time.  You're  not  going  to  eat  another 
egg,  surely?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  ; "  and  Sam  broke  the  shell  very 
deliberately,  and  took  up  a  pinch  of  salt  between 
his  thumb  and  forefinger,  indifferent,  in  the 
absence  of  his  elders,  to  breakfast-table  pro- 
prieties. 

"  I'm  going  to  eat  another  egg,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  school :  there  are  ^two  facts  for  you, 
Miss  Martha  Jane." 


SAM'S  PUNISHMENT.  47 

"  Not  going  to  school !  Why,  Sam,  did  mam* 
ma  say  we  were  not  to  go ?  She  didn't  tell  me* 

"  She  didn't  exactly  tell  me"  said  Sam,  shak- 
ing the  pepper-box  over  his  egg-glass,  "  but  I 
don't  have  to  be  told  everything  under  the  sun 
before  I  can  understand,  as  you  do,  Mattie." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mattie, 
doubtfully. 

"  Of  course  you  don't.  r  That's  just  what  I 
said.  You  never  know  how  to  think  for  your* 
self  about  anything." 

"  But,  Sam,  I  know  what  mamma  told  me. 
It  was  to  '  go  on  just  the  same  way  as  if  she 
were  at  home,'  and  I  certainly  can't  see  how  that 
means  staying  from  school." 

"  I  know  what  she  told  me,  too.  It  was  to 
'  take  care  of  my  sister,  and  look  after  things.' 
Which  meant,  of  course,  that  I  should  stop  at 
home  to  protect  the  house,  and  see  any  people 
that  came  on  business,  and  —  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  Anybody  —  except  some  one  as  stupid 
as  you,  Mattie  —  could  see  at  once  that  it 
wouldn't  be  proper  for  us  to  go  to  school,  and 
leave  no  one  but  servants  in  the  house  all  the 
while  papa  and  mamma  are  away." 

"  I  can't  see  why  it  should  be  improper," 
Mattie  persisted. 


48  BIRDS  OF   A  FEATHER. 

"  Let  me  see  for  you,  then,"  observed  Sam, 
with  a  grand  air.  "  You  can't  help  it,  I  sup- 
pose, if  you  are  a  little  bit  stupid,  Patsy  Anne." 

"  Your  calling  me  stupid  so  many  times 
doesn't  prove  that  I  am,"  retorted  Mattie,  rather 
indignantly.  "  It's  not  very  kind  of  you,  at  any 
rate,  Sam  ;  and  my  name  isn't  Patsy  Anne,  or 
Martha  Jane,  either." 

"  So  it  isn't,  Mattykin,  and  I  won't  call  you  so 
any  more,  if  you'll  be  a  good  girl.  Come  up 
stairs  and  help  me  finish  my  kite,  that's  a  good 
old  Mat ;  and  then  I'll  lend  you  my  color-box  to 
paint  your  paper  dolls.  Come  along  :  it'll  be  a 
great  deal  nicer  than  going  to  school." 

"  I  dare  say ;  but  I'm  going  to  school  all  the 
same,"  answered  Mattie,  getting  up  from  the 
table.  "  I  don't  think  papa  and  mamma  intend- 
ed for  us  to  stay  away ;  and  I  don't  think  we 
have  any  right  to,  of  ourselves.  Indeed,  I'm 
very  sure  we  haven't,"  she  repeated,  decidedly, 
"  and  so  you  must  do  as  you  please,  Sam,  but  / 
am  going  to  school." 

"  Go  on,  then,  and  be  hateful  and  disobliging. 
It's  just  like  you ! "  exclaimed  Sam,  angrily. 
"You're  so  conceited  that  nobody  can  tell  you 
anything.  You  think  you  know  better  than  all 
the  world." 


SAM  S    PUNISHMENT.  49 

"  An  the  world,"  in  this  case,  meaning  only 
Sam  Gordon,  —  who,  being  her  twin-brother,  was 
exactly  the  same  age  with  herself,  and  failed  in 
his  lessons  quite  as  often,  to  say  the  least,  as  she 
did.  Mattie  could  not  see  why  she  had  not 
as  good  a  right  to  an  opinion  as  Sam.  He  had 
just  told  her,  besides,  that  she  never  knew  how 
to  think  for  herself;  and  yet,  now  that  she  did 
think,  he  was  angry. 

She  did  not  tell  him  this,  however.  She  only 
began  to  say,  — 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Sam ;  indeed  I  don't  wish 
to  be  disobliging  —  " 

But  he  interrupted  her  with  another  angry  ex- 
clamation, pushed  his  chair  back  to  the  wall  with 
a  great  bang,  and  marched  out  of  the  room. 
Mattie  stood  still  for  a  minute  or  two  after  he 
had  left  her,  feeling  very  much  distressed  and 
perplexed.  It  was  so  unpleasant  to  vex  Sam, 
and  yet  she  felt  so  sure  she  was  right,  that  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  give  up  the  point,  even 
for  the  sake  of  humoring  him. 

"  I  do  wish  that  papa  and  mamma  had  not 

been  obliged  to  hurry  off  so  last  night,"  she  said 

to  herself.     "  There  was  no  time  to  give  us  any 

directions ;  and  if  Sam  and  I  are  going  to  think 

4 


5O  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

differently  about  everything,  it  will  certainly  be 
very  hard.  Well,  I  can't  help  it.  It's  time  to 
go  to  school  now,  at  any  rate,  and  /  knoiv  I 
ought  to  go." 

So  she  collected  her  books  without  any  further 
pondering,  and  started  off  for  school.  Once 
there,  there  was  no  time  to  fret  herself  with 
thinking  of  Sam's  unkind  speeches,  and  his  lone- 
liness at  home  without  her.  Lessons  had  to  be 
attended  to,  and  the  day  passed  by  busily  and 
happily,  as  it  generally  does  when  one  has  a 
clear  conscience,  and  knows  one  is  doing  what 
is  right. 

The  case  was  different  with  Sam.  In  spite  of 
his  confident  assertions,  he  did  not  feel  altogether 
at  ease  in  his  own  mind,  and  consequently  ev- 
erything he  attempted  to  do  proved  unsatisfac- 
tory. He  went  up  to  the  attic,  which  had  been 
given  to  the  children  for  their  play-room,  and 
began  to  make  a  tail  for  his  kite.  But  he  was 
not  accustomed  to  do  anything  by  himself:  Mat- 
tie  was  always  at  hand,  to  help  or  to  hinder,  as 
the  case  might  be ;  and  though  he  hectored  her 
not  a  little,  and  called  her  "  stupid  "  on  the  least 
provocation,  still  he  found,  when  she  was  gone, 
that  she  was  very  good  company  indeed. 


SAM'S  PUNISHMENT.  51 

Making  kite-tails  all  alone  was  an  uninterest- 
ing amusement,  so  he  soon  gave  it  up,  anjj  went 
down  stairs  again,  to  look  for  a  book.  There 
was  nothing  new,  however.  All  his  own  books, 
and  Mattie's,  had  been  read  through  more  than 
once,  and  he  looked  in  vain  upon  his  father's 
book-shelves  for  something  that  would  amuse 
him.  Hejrndon's  Amazon  and  Livingston's  Af- 
rica were  tried  in  turn,  and  each  thrown  aside. 
Finally  he  fell  back  upon  The  Young  Maroon- 
ers,  which  he  had  read  twice  already,  and  con- 
trived to  get  rid  of  half  an  hour  in  following  the 
adventures  of  Harold  and  Robert  in  their  desert 
island. 

At  the  end  of  this  time  he  concluded  that  he 
felt  hungry,  and  he  would  have  some  luncheon, 
—  not  a  common,  every-day,  bread-and-butter 
luncheon, — he  had  no  appetite  for  that,  which 
was  not  surprising,  considering  the  three  eggs, 
the  muffins,  and  the  radishes  which  he  had  dis- 
posed of  at  breakfast  only  two  hours  ago.  Some 
almonds,  and  a  bunch  of  raisins,  or  a  piece  of 
candied  citron  —  perhaps  a  slice  of  fruit-cake, 
if  there  should  happen  to  be  a  loaf  that  was 
cut ;  these  were  the  dainties  that  suggested 
themselves  to  Master  Sam's  mind,  and  he  went 


52  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

down  to  the  dining-room  to  find  the  key  of  a 
certain  closet  which  he  knew  contained  a  store 
of  such  things. 

This  key  was  put  away  carefully,  in  an  inner 
drawer  of  the  sideboard  ;  for,  besides  the  store  of 
sweets  which  the  closet  contained,  there  was 
also  a  quantity  of  old-fashioned  silver  put  there 
for  safe  keeping.  It  was  family  silver,  handed 
down  for  three  generations ;  and  besides  being 
valuable  in  itself,  was  especially  prized  by  Mrs. 
Gordon  for  the  sake  of  the  associations  connected 
with  it.  The  key  would  probably  have  been 
laid  in  some  still  more  secure  place  if  Mrs. 
Gordon  had  remembered  it,  but  in  the  hurry 
of  her  unexpected  departure  it  was  not  thought 
of;  so  it  still  lay  in  the  sideboard  drawer,  where 
Sam  had  often  seen  his  mother  put  it,  and  he  got 
possession  of  it  without  any  difficulty. 

It  occurred  to  him,  as  he  stood  in  the  closet 
helping  himself  liberally  to  the  various  delicacies 
around  him,  that  he  was  not  generally  allowed 
the  freedom  of  those  shelves.  The  nuts  and  fruit 
that  he  and  Mattie  occasionally  had  for  their 
school  luncheon  were  dispensed  by  their  moth- 
er's hand,  not  taken  at  their  own  discretion. 
They  were  never  sent  to  that  closet  on  any 


SAM'S  PUNISHMENT.  53 

errand  whatever,  and  Mattie  certainly  would 
never  have  gone  to  it  in  her  mother's  absence. 
Sam  could  not  help  thinking  so  as  he  stood  there, 
and  for  a  moment  a  good  impulse  came  to  him 
to  put  back  the  cluster  of  1'aisins  untested,  lock 
the  door,  and  restore  the  key  to  its  hiding-place. 

"  But  that's  all  nonsense,"  he  said  to  himself, 
resisting  the  voice  of  conscience.  "  Mattie's  a 
little  goose,  and  never  dares  to  do  anything  with- 
out permission.  But  I'm  the  master  of  the 
house  while  papa's  away,  and  I've  a  right  to 
help  myself  to  a  few  nuts,  if  I  please.  There's 
no  harm  in  it." 

So  the  good  impulse  was  checked  by  the  same 
false  reasoning  with  which  he  had  satisfied  him- 
self in  the  morning.  He  crammed  his  pockets 
with  whatever  he  fancied — prunes,  figs,  raisins  — 
dipped  his  fingers  into  various  jars  of  preserved 
ginger  and  foreign  sweetmeats,  and  finally  re- 
turned to  the  parlor  to  finish  his  refreshment  at 
his  leisure,  beside  the  open  window.  The  closet 
was  left  unlocked,  with  the  key  in  the  door,  and 
Sam  thought  no  more  of  it  from  that  time  for- 
ward. 

Later  in  the  day  a  man  came  by  with  a  bill- 
hook in  his  hand. 


54  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

"Have  your  grass"  cut,  sir?"  he  inquired  of 
Sam,  who  still  lounged  at  the  parlor  window. 
"  Do  it  nice,  and  do  it  cheap,  if  you'll  give  me 
the  job,  sir." 

"How  cheap?"  asked  Sam.  "I  guess  it 
does  need  cutting,  out  in  the  back  yard,  and  I 
don't  know  but  I'll  employ  you,"  he  added,  im- 
portantly. Here  was  a  fine  opportunity  to 
prove  to  Mattie  that  his  presence  at  home  was 
necessary. 

"Are  you  the  boss?"  asked  the  man,  looking 
up  curiously  at  the  boy's  consequential  tone. 

"  I  am  the  master  of  the  house  while  my 
father  is  away,"  Sam  replied,  still  more  grand- 
ly. "  How  much  will  you  charge  for  cutting  the 
grass  ?  " 

"  That  depends  upon  how  much  you've  got  to 
cut.  I'll  have  to  see  it,  sir,  before  I  can  tell 
you." 

"  Come  in  the  house,  then,  this  way ;  and 
you  can  go  through  into  the  back  yard." 

Sam  went  to  the  front  door  as  he  spoke,  and 
let  the  man  in.  He  had  no  business  to  do  it, 
the  basement  door,  of  course,  being  the  proper 
entrance  for  such  a  person.  "  But  it's  too  much 
trouble  to  go  down  stairs,"  he  thought.  "  He 


SAM'S  PUNISHMENT.  55 

can  just  as  well  go  through  the  hall."  So  the 
dusty  boots  were  marched  across  the  handsome 
hall  carpet,  past  the  closet  door  with  the  key  in 
it,  which  the  man  took  notice  of,  though  Sam 
did  not,  and  on  through  the  piazza,  out  into  the 
back  yard. 

There  the  bargain  was  soon  concluded  —  the 
man  charging  double  what  the  work  was  worth, 
for  he  was  quick  enough  to  see  the  inexperience 
of  his  employer.  Sam,  quite  unconscious  of 
that,  felt  very  self-satisfied  and  important.  He 
was  a  person  of  authority  ;  he  was  discharging 
the  duties  of  his  position ;  he  should  be  able  to 
tell  Mattie,  triumphantly,  that  he  "  had  had  to 
see  a  person  on  business,  and  it  was  quite  lucky 
that  he  had  not  gone  to  school." 

In  the  midst  of  these  self-complacent  thoughts, 
the  grass-cutter,  whose  work  was  done  very 
rapidly  at  least,  if  not  very  thoroughly,  carne 
up  the  steps  of  the  piazza,  and  demanded  his 
fee.  Sam  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  then  re- 
membered that  all  the  money  in  the  house  was 
up  stairs  in  the  market-purse. 

"  You'll  have  to  wait  a  minute,  till  I  go  up 
stairs,"  he  said.  "  I've  no  money  about  me." 

"  All  right,  sir ;  I'm  not  in  a  hurry,"  was  the 


56  BIRDS    OF  A   FEATHER. 

answer ;  and  the  man  stepped  forward  into  the 
hall,  leaning  his  back  against  the  closet  door, 
while  Sam  went  up  to  get  the  money.  He 
thought  he  knew  exactly  where  to  find  it,  but 
when  he  opened  the  drawer  where  the  market- 
purse  was  kept,  it  was  not  to  be  seen.  He  rum- 
maged about,  upsetting  all  the  papers  and  ac- 
count-books, and  loosening  packages  of  receipted 
bills,  in  a  vain  expectation  of  finding  it  hidden 
under  them.  But  still  it  did  not  appear,  and 
some  five  minutes  were  wasted  in  the  fruitless 
search  before  he  remembered  that  the  cook  had 
probably  gone  out  to  do  the  marketing,  and 
taken  the  purse  with  her. 

"  How  provoking  !  "  he  exclaimed,  impatient- 
ly. "  Now  what  am  I  going  to  do,  I  wonder? 
I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  tell  him  to  wait,  or  to 
come  again.  What  a  bother !  " 

But  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  so  he  went  down 
again  to  arrange  the  matter  as  well  as  he  could. 
He  had  left  the  man  in  the  hall,  but  no  man  was 
there  now,  to  his  surprise  ;  neither  was  he  in  the 
piazza.  There  were  the  tracks  of  his  dirty  feet ; 
there  were  a  few  withered  blades  of  grass,  — 
tokens  of  his  presence,  indeed,  —  but  the  man 
himself  had  disappeared  utterly  ! 


SAM'S    PUNISHMENT.  57 

"  He  must  be  in  the  kitchen,  of  course," 
thought  Sam,  and  down  he  went.  But  he  was 
not  there,  nor  yet  in  the  back  yard.  No  sign  of 
him  anywhere  about,  and  no  one  had  seen  him 
go  out  of  the  house ;  yet  gone  he  was,  most 
certainly,  out  of  sight  and  out  of  sound  !  It  was 
very  mysterious,  and  Sam  was  exceedingly  per- 
plexed. 

"  I  only  hope  he  hasn't  carried  off  anything, 
Master  Sam,"  said  Anne,  the   housemaid.     "  If 
wasn't  safe  at  all,  going  up  stairs  and  leaving 
him  there  all  alone  ;  he  a  strange  man,  too  ! " 

"  That's  nonsense,"  said  Sam,  hastily.  "  What 
could  he  carry  off,  I'd  like  to  know,  in  such  a 
minute  of  time?" 

"  If  he  could  carry  himself  off,  he  could  carry 
something  else,"  retorted  Anne.  "  Them  fellers  is 
sharp  as  a  meat-axe,  and  I'll  bet  he  never  went 
empty-handed.  I'm  going  to  see,  anyhow." 

She  started  up  stairs,  and  Bridget,' the  cook, 
who  had  just  come  in,  followed  after  her.  Sam 
came  behind,  feeling  nervous  and  anxious  in 
spite  of  himself;  and  he  was  not  reassured  by 
Anne's  outcry,  as  soon  as  .she  reached  the  top  of 
the  stairs,  — 

"  The  hall  closet's  open !  O,  my  blessed 
goodness !  He's  been  at  the  silver !  " 


58  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

Poor  Sam  !  it  flashed  over  him  instantly  that 
he  had  never  locked  that  door,  never  taken  out 
the  key,  never  thought  of  it,  in  fact,  since  he 
helped  himself  to  the  sweetmeats  in  the  morn- 
ing. And  the  silver,  the  precious  old  family 
silver,  that  his  mother  prized  so  dearly ! 

He  gave  one  bound,  rushed  past  Bridget,  and 
tore  open  the  closet  door  before  Anne  had  at- 
tempted to  do  it.  Alas,  the  terrible  fear  was  too 
true !  The  quaint,  pretty  old  silver  porringers, 
the  pair  of  heavy  salt-cellars,  the  cream-jug,  the 
sugar-tongs,  and  the  spoons,  were  all  gone  !  In 
forlorn  stateliness  stood  the  two  tea-pots,  and  the 
cake-basket ;  they  were  safe  on  account  of  their 
size ;  but  all  the  small  articles,  everything  that 
could  possibly  be  stuffed  into  pockets,  or  hidden 
in  a  hat-crown,  or  tucked  under  a  coat,  had  dis- 
appeared ! 

Sam  felt  stunned  and  bewildered,  as  if  some 
one  had  knocked  him  down  suddenly.  Any- 
body might  have  knocked  him  down,  indeed, 
with  a  feather,  as  he  realized,  at  last,  the  conse- 
quences of  his  misconduct.  He  looked  so  pale 
•and  horror-stricken,  as  he  stood  dumb  before  the 
door,  that  Anne  had  no  need  to  ask  how  the 
closet  came  to  be  open.  She  turned  upon  him 
with  a  torrent  of  reproach. 


SAM'S  PUNISHMENT.  59 

"  It's  you  that  did  it,  Master  Sam,  as  it's  easy 
to  see  by  the  face  of  yur.  And  what  business 
had  yur  in  the  closet,  I'd  like  to  know,  when  it's 
never  allowed  to  go  into  it  yur  are?  " 

"  I  thought  —  I  intended  —  I  forgot  to  lock 
it !  "  stammered  Sam,  wretchedly. 

*'  And  what  was  yur  after  at  all  ?"  screamed 
Bridget,  angrily.  "  Why  isn't  it  at  school  yur 
are,  like  yur  sister?  And  who  gave  yur  leave 
to  be  meddling  with  the  raisins  and  swate  stuffs 
that  yur  mother  never  lets  yur  go  to  ?  " 

"  That's  true  for  yur,"  chimed  in  Anne.  "  He 
had  a  right  to  be  at  school  this  blessed  day,  and 
I  heard  Miss  Mattie  tryin'  to  coax  him  to  go. 
But  he's  so  full  of  his  conceit  —  he  thinks  he 
knows  so  much  better  than  she  does  —  when 
she's  got  more  sense  in  her  little  finger  than  he 
has  all  over,  as  any  fool  may  see  !  " 

"  It's  a  pretty  kettle  o'  fish  he's  cooked  for  his- 
self  now,"  said  Bridget,  grimly.  "  I  wouldn't 
be  in  his  shoes  when  his  father  comes  home. 
An'  serve  him  right,  too." 

Sam  had  not  a  word  to  answer  to  the  scolding 
of  the  servants.  They  were  honest,  faithful  wo- 
men, who  had  lived  for  years  in  the  family,  and 
Mrs.  Gordon  trusted  them  with  everything  in  the 


60  BLRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

house.  They  were  proud  of  her  trust,  and  felt 
all  the  more  bitterly  an  affair  like  this,  which 
would  seem  to  be  a  reflection  upon  their  careful- 
ness ;  though  they  were,  of  course,  not  in  the 
least  to  blame,  as  Sam  knew  well,  for  he. had 
taken  very  good  pains  that  neither  Anne  nor 
Bri'dget  should  see  him  get  the  key. 

He  broke  away  from  them  at  last,  and  rushed 
up  to  his  own  room,  where  he  shut  himself  in, 
and  gave  way  to  a  passion  of  grief  and  despair. 
O,  if  he  only  had  locked  the  closet  and  put  away 
the  key  !  If  he  had  never  thought  about  getting 
the  raisins !  If  he  had  but  gone  to  school  with 
Mattie  in  the  morning !  Too  late  he  saw  that 
here  was  where  his  wrong-doing  had  begun.  If 
he  had  not  chosen,  in  a  -fit  of  laziness  and  self- 
indulgence,  to  stay  at  home,  persuading  himself 
that  it  was  right,  when  Mattie  and  his  own  con- 
science both  told  him  it  was  wrong,  none  of  all 
this  trouble  would  have  happened.  But  one  fault 
led  to  another.  First  idleness,  then  disobedi- 
ence, then  dishonesty,  then  carelessness,  and  he 
saw,  too  late,  alas !  how  great  the  faults  were, 
that  he  had  not  recognized  as  faults  at  all,  until 
their  bitter  punishment  overtook  him. 

Mattie  came  home  from  school  with  the  usual 


SAM'S  PUNISHMENT.  6 1 

cheerful  and  contented  look  on  her  face.  She 
had  only  one  little  uneasiness,  and  that  was  the 
wonder  if  Sam  had  got  over  his  vexation  with 
her.  To  settle  this  as  speedily  as  possible,  she 
went  to  look  for  him  as  soon  as  she  had  put  away 
her  bonnet  and  books.  He  heard  her  voice  in 
the  upper  hall,  calling  his  name,  and  wretched 
as  he  was,  it  gave  him  a  sense  of  relief.  Much 
as  he  had  snubbed  his  little  sister,  he  depended 
upon  her  more  than  he  knew.  She  might  think 
of  something  to  help  him  out  of  his  trouble,  he 
thought ;  at  any  rate  it  would  be  some  comfort  to 
tell  her  about  it,  and  he  knew  from  her  he  would 
get  nothing  but  tender  pity. 

Which  was  true  indeed.  She  was  heart- 
broken when  she  heard  the  sad  story,  and  with 
all  her  might  she  pitied  him,  and  grieved  with 
him,  and  never  once  said,  "  I  told  you  so  ! "  as 
she  might  have  done  very  naturally. 

Moreover  her  good  sense  suggested  the  quick- 
est plan  for  relief  from  his  unhappy  state  of 
mind,  which  was,  to  write  at  once  to  his  mother, 
and  tell  her  the  whole  story,  instead  of  waiting 
until  her  return  to  make  the  dreadful  disclosure. 
Sam  would  never  have  thought  of  that  himself, 
but  he  saw  at  once  the  wisdom  of  immediate 


62  BIRDS   OF    A   FEATHER. 

confession,  —  or  "having  the  worst  over  with," 
as  he  phrased  it,  —  after  his  sister  had  shown  it 
to  him ! 

So  they  wrote  the  letter  together  with  much 
painstaking  and  deliberation.  But  the  truth  was 
told  plainly,  without  any  attempt  to  excuse  Sam, 
—  only  that  Mattie  added  a  private  postscript 
afterwards,  to  the  effect  that, — 

"  Poor  Sam  didn't  mean  to  do  anything  wrong, 
and  he  was  so  very,  -very  sorry  and  ashamed ! 
Wouldn't  dear  papa  and  mamma  please  not  to 
be  very  angry  with  him,  but  just  pity  him  a 
little?  He  was  so  miserable,  and  so  was  their 
poor  little  Mattie,  who  was  sure  tha|  Sam  would 
never  be  naughty  again." 

It  was  not  a  very  comfortable  letter  for  Mrs. 
Gordon  to  read,  as  you  can  imagine.  She  had 
kept  watch  for  three  days  and  nights  beside  a 
death-bed,  and  had  just  closed  poor  uncle  Job's 
eyes  for  their  last  dreamless  sleep,  when  the 
letter  was  brought  to  her.  The  tears  that  she 
shed  were  not  for  the  poor  old  man  who  had 
gone  to  his  rest,  leaning  trustfully  upon  his 
Savior's  love ;  they  were  all  for  the  boy  who 


SAM'S  PUNISHMENT.  63 

had  his  life  yet  before  him,  to  mend  or  to  mar, 
who  was  so  easily  tempted  from  the  path  of 
duty,  and  might  still  fall  into  so  many  grievous 
errors  and  dangers.  The  loss  of  the  silver  was 
no  small  pain,  but  the  feeling  that  Sam,  her  only 
son,  was  so  little  to  be  trusted,  gave  her  a  far 
keener  pang.  And  that  sorrowful  night  was 
spent  in  earnest  prayer,  that  this  hard  lesson 
might  be  so  stamped  upon  the  boy's  heart  that 
he  should  remember  it  for  a  warning  all  the  days 
of  his  life.  The  silver  would  be  well  lost,  she 
thought  in  her  heart,  if  its  loss  were  the  means 
of  making  Sam  a  conscientious  and  trustworthy 
boy. 

She  told  him  this  in  her  answer  to  his  letter, 
and  it  was  the  first  gleam  of  real  comfort  that  he 
had  found  since  his  trouble  began.  It  showed 
him  how  his  grief,  and  punishment  could  be 
turned  into  a  blessing;  and  he  vowed  in  his 
heart  then,  —  and  asked  God  on  his  knees  to 
help  him  keep  the  vow,  —  that  he  would  never 
rest  till  he  became  what  his  mother  wished.  It 
was  the  first  earnest  purpose  he  had  ever  set 
before  him,  the  first  real  prayer  he  had  ever 
offered ;  and  our  Father  in  heaven  is  quick  to 
hear  and  help  us  in  all  such. 


64  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

"God  sees  from  his  high  blue  heaven  — 
He  sees  the  grape  in  the  flower;  "  — 

and  sunshine  and  shower  are  never  lacking  to 
bring  it  to  perfection. 

The  fine  old  silver  was  never  recovered ;  but 
as  time  went  by,  and  Sam's  good  resolutions 
were  put  into  practice,  proved  and  tried  by 
temptation,  and  found  steadfast,  his  mother 
felt  that  something  had  been  given  her  in  its 
stead  more  precious  than  silver  or  gold  ;  for  as 
"  a  foolish  son  is  the  heaviness  of  his  mother," 
so  is  a  wise  and  good  son  the  joy  of  her  heart, 
and  her  life's  great  comfort. 


RUSSELL'S  PAINT-BOX. 

DING-DONG!  the  old  bell  at  the  police 
station  was  ringing  out  twelve,  and,  as  its 
last  stroke  swung  upon  the  air,  a  crowd  of  boys 
poured  out  into  the  playground  of  the  big  public 
school  on  the  avenue  below.  It  was  the  dinner 
recess,  and  a  great  number  of  little  baskets,  and 
tin  pails,  and  sandwich-boxes  came  to  light  sud- 
denly, as  their  owners  scattered  round  in  various 
directions,  some  in  groups  to  enjoy  their  luncheon 
together,  others  off  in  a  corner  to  dispose  of  it  in 
solitude. 

"  Come,  Cleve,"  said  one  of  a  group  of  boys, 
who  had  seated  themselves  in  a  shady  place 
under  the  fence,  "  trot  out  that  basket  of  yours, 
and  let's  see  what  kind  of  a  spread  you've  got 
to-day.  Your  mother's  a  trump,  I  say ;  she 
always  gets  you  up  such  jolly  good  lunches." 

"  Well,  so  she  does,"  answered  Cleve,  laugh- 
ing. "  I'm  her  only  chick,  you  know,  and  she 
naturally  doesn't  want  me  to  starve." 

5  <«*> 


66  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

"  That's  what  makes  her  so  liberal  on  the 
chicken,  I  s'pose,"  said  another  boy,  helping 
himself  without  ceremony  to  a  large  slice  of 
breast  which  lay  uppermost  in  the  basket. 
"  There's  plenty  more,  I  know,  old  fellow,  and 
it  will  help  my  bread  and  butter  along  amaz- 
ingly." 

"  Take  another,"  responded  Cleve,  good- 
naturedly.  "  There's  some  crullers  down  be- 
low there,  and  some  little  tarts  and  things,  too, 
I  guess.  Help  yourself;"  and  his  basket  was 
handed  in  turn  to  each  of  his  companions,  until 
the  dainties  prepared  by  Mrs.  Morris  for  her 
only  darling  were  in  a  fair  way  of  being  more 
generally  distributed  than  she  had  anticipated. 

"  You're  a  lucky  fellow,"  said  Russell  Holmes, 
taking  possession  of  a  cranberry  tart,  and  biting 
into  it  with  great  satisfaction.  "  I  think  I'm 
well  off  if  I  get  a  doughnut,  or  a  piece  of  apple- 
pie,  for  goodies ;  but  your  basket  is  equal  to  a 
baker's  shop." 

"  O,  I  don't  care  much  about  it,"  answered 
Cleve,  carelessly.  "  I'd  just  as  soon  not  have 
all  this  stuff;  and  as  to  being  lucky,  that's  a 
great  mistake.  I'm  just  the  unluckiest  fellow 
in  the  world  —  always  losing  something  or  other. 


RUSSELL'S  PAINT-BOX.  67 

Last  week  it  was  my  four-bladed  knife,  and  now 
I've  lost  two  shillings  out  of  my  pocket,  because 
that  old  peg-top  had  to  poke  a  hole  in  it.  It 
was  all  the  money  I  had,  besides,  and  I  can't  have 
any  more  till  next  month." 

"  Why  not?"  asked  Russell. 

"  O,  because  I  have  an  allowance,  you  know, 
and  my  father  never  will  let  me  go  over  it.  It's 
no  use  asking,  so  I'm  dead  broke  till  May.  By 
the  way,  Russell,  I  was  at  your  house  yesterday. 
You  didn't  see  anything  of  a  stray  quarter  lying 
around  after  I  went  away — did  you?  I  missed 
it  last  night,  so  I  must  have  lost  it  in  the  after- 
noon somewhere." 

"  I  guess  you  didn't  lose  it  at  our  house,"  said 
Russell,  confidently.  "  I  should  have  seen  it 
somewhere  if  you  had.  You  were  only  in  the 
yard,  and  up  in  my  garret,  you  know  —  and  I 
didn't  see  a  sign  of  it." 

"  Well,  it's  just  my  luck  !  "  cried  Cleve,  gayly. 
"  It's  no  use  crying,  though  ;  so  come  on,  boys, 
and  let's  play  hookey  !  Dick  Foster,  I  owe  you 
one !  Look  out  for  your  shins  now,  old  fel- 
low ! " 

He  made  a  flourish  with  his  hookey-stick  that 
sent  the  ball  spiniTing  half  across  the  playground, 


68  BIRDS    OF    A    FKATilER.. 

and  Dick  Foster  and  the  rest,  scrambling  to  their 
feet,  were  soon  after  it  in  hot  pursuit. 

There  was  no  more  said  about  the  lost  money. 
The  other  boys  forgot  it,  and  Cleve  Morris,  a 
careless,  easy,  generous  fellow,  was  too  much 
accustomed  to  such  losses  to  think  long  about 
this.  He  laughed  over  his  poverty  when  his 
slate-pencils  and  top-strings  gave  out,  and  he 
became  bankrupt  in  marbles ;  but  he  managed 
to  get  on  till  the  end  of  the  month  without  bor- 
rowing a  penny,  though  he  had  many  offers  of 
small  loans,  being  generally  popular  among  his 
companions.  To  reward  him  for  such  virtue, 
his  mother  added  a  generous  gift  on  her  own 
account  to  his  father's  allowance  when  May 
came ;  and  Cleve,  in  his  unexpected  riches, 
declared  that  his  losing  the  quarter  was  a 
"stroke  of  good  luck,"  after  all. 

Russell  Holmes  listened  enviously  as  his 
schoolfellow  boasted  of  his  good  fortune,  and 
showed  his  handful  of  jingling  silver  pieces  to 
the  boysjn  the  playground. 

"Just  like  him"  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he 
went  home  after  school,  still  dwelling  upon  the 
thought  that  had  been  in  his  mind  all  the  after- 
noon :  "  I  wonder  when  my  mother  would  have 


RUSSELL'S  PAINT-BOX.  69 

given  me  a  dollar  for  such  a  thing?  But  he  gets 
everything  he  wants,  and  is  even  paid  for  losing 
his  money !  I  don't  think  it's  fair." 

Russell  could  not  have  given  a  very  good  rea- 
son for  not  thinking  it  "  fair,"  considering  that 
Mrs.  Morris  had  certainly  the  right  to  use  her 
own  money  as  she  pleased.  But,  in  his  grum- 
bling, mood,  he  did  not  stop  to  be  logical. 

"  There's  that  paint-box,"  he  began  again, 
"  that  I've  been  wanting  so  long,  and  my  father 
won't  give  me.  It's  only  two  shillings,  and 
Fricke  would  let  me  have  it  for  twenty  cents. 
But,  no  !  my  father  can't  afford  it,  he  says.  He 
never  can  afford  anything  I  want,  and  I  think 
it's  real  mean." 

Again  Russell  did  not  consider  how  unreason- 
able he  was.  There  were  a  great  many  little 
children  at  Mr.  Holmes's ;  Russell  was  the  old- 
est of  eight  brothers  and  sisters,  and  he  knew 
very  well  that  his  parents  had  hard  work,  with 
their  moderate  means,  to  provide  comfortably 
for  them  all.  He  knew,  too,  that  his  father 
indulged  him  in  everything  he  could  possibly 
afford,  and  that  none  of  the  other  children  had 
as  much  pocket-money,  or  as  many  playthings, 
as  himself.  It  was  especially  selfish  and  un- 


7O  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

grateful  in  him  to  think  such  things,  but  he  was 
just  in  the  humor  not  to  care  how  wicked  he 
was  ;  and  he  fairly  grumbled  himself,  as  he  stood 
by  the  toy-shop  window,  where  the  coveted 
paint-box  lay,  into  the  belief  that  he  was  a 
most  unhappy  and  ill-used  boy. 

By  the  time  he  reached  home,  he  was,  of 
course,  not  a  very  pleasant  companion  for  any- 
body. His  mother  looked  up  from  her  sewing 
with  a  smile  and  a  kind  word  as  he  came  into 
the  nursery,  and  little  Essie  ran  eagerly  to  give 
her  "  big  budder "  a  kiss.  But  he  took  no 
notice  of  either  one,  only  slammed  his  books 
down  upon  the  closet-shelf,  and  stalked  sulkily 
out  of  the  room  without  speaking. 

He  went  first  up  into  the  garret,  which  was  a 
general  play-room  for  all  the  children,  though 
Russell,  as  the  oldest,  claimed  chief  possession, 
and  always  spoke  of  it  as  "  my  garret."  He 
found  the  twins  —  Frank  and  Wilson  —  there, 
busy  making  a  kite  out  of  some  tissue-paper 
which  he  recognized  as  his  own  property.  At 
any  other  time  he  would  have  allowed  them  to 
use  it  without  any  reproof.  But  an  evil  spirit  had 
control  of  him  to-day,  and  made  him  do  mean 
and  unkind  things,  which  he  blushed  to  remem- 
ber afterwards. 


RUSSELIS    PAINT-BOX.  Jl 

"  What  are  you  doing  with  my  paper,  I'd  like 
to  know?  Who  gave  you  leave  to  touch  it, 
sir?"  were  the  angry  questions  with  which  the 
poor  little  fellows  were  greeted.  "  I'll  teach  you 
how  to  meddle  with  my  things  another  time ! 
Now  see ! " 

And  before  they  knew  what  he  meant,  the 
poor  little  pink  kite,  which  Frank  and  Wilson 
had  been  laboring  over  for  an  hour,  was  torn 
into  twenty  pieces  by  their  brother's  hands. 

He  went  down  into  the  yard  after  this,  leaving 
the  children  sobbing  over  their  disappointment 
and  his  unkindness.  He  felt  more  miserable  than 
ever,  and  did  not  know  at  all  what  to  do  with 
himself;  so,  for  want  of  occupation,  he  began 
to  poke  holes  into  the  ground  with  an  old  walk- 
ing-stick of  his  father's  that  the  little  ones  used 
for  a  hobby-horse. 

"You  shouldn't  do  that,  Russell,"  said  the 
nurse,  who  was  sitting  on  the  terrace  above  him 
with  the  baby  in  her  arms.  "  There's  seeds 
coming  up  in  them  beds,  and  you'll  kill  'em  all 
if  you  do  so." 

"  It's  none  of  your  business  if  I  do  !  "  Russell 
answered,  rudely,  and  went  on  poking  holes,  to 
finish  the  figure  of  a  half  moon.  But  the  cane 


72  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

struck  suddenly  against  something  hard,  and 
stooping  down  to  see  what  it  was,  he  found  a 
small,  round  piece  of  metal,  which,  all  crusted 
with  mud  as  it  was,  the  boy  knew  instantly  to 
be  a  silver  quarter.  His  first  impulse  was  to 
hide  it  from  the  nurse  who  was  watching  him  ; 
so,  closing  his  hand  over  it  carefully,  he  got  up 
again,  struck  the  cane  into  the  ground  once  or 
twice,  and  then  throwing  it  down  in  the  path, 
sauntered  out  through  the  garden  gate  into  the 
street. 

Some  secret  instinct  made  him  avoid  observa- 
tion ;  so-  he  walked  on  down  the  street  until  he 
was  quite  out  of  sight  of  his  own  house,  and 
then  crossed  over  to  a  vacant  lot,  and  sat  down 
on  a  stone  behind  the  fence,  before  he  ventured 
to  examine  his  treasure  openly.  It  was  covered 
with  crusted  mud,  but  he  easily  scraped  that  off 
with  his  penknife,  and  then  it  showed  fairly  what 
it  was  —  a  good,  genuine  silver  coin. 

"  Yes,  it  is  certainly  good  money,"  said  Rus- 
sell to  himself.  "  What  a  lucky  find !  Now  I 
shall  buy  that  paint-box." 

But  he  did  not  seem  in  a  hurry  to  go  and 
do  it. 

He  sat  upon  the  stone,  and  fingered  the  quar- 


RUSSELL'S  PAINT-BOX.  73 

ter  in  a  nervous  sort  of  way,  looking  round  him 
suspiciously  now  and  then  to  see  if  anybody  was 
coming  near  him,  and  muttering  excuses  to  him- 
self, that  proved  his  conscience  was  not  altogether 
easy.  The  truth  was,  he  knew  perfectly  well  he 
had  no  right  to  spend  the  money ;  that  it  was 
the  very  piece  Cleve  Morris  had  lost  two  weeks 
ago,  and  that  it  was  his  bounden  duty,  therefore, 
to  restore  it  immediately. 

He  knew  what  he  ought  to  do,  but  he  was 
extremely  unwilling ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
could  not  easily  make  up  his  mind  to  do  what 
he  knew  would  be  a  dishonest  thing.  If  there 
had  only  been  any  doubt  in  his  mind  about  the 
ownership  of  the  quarter,  he  could  have  con- 
tented himself  readily.  But  Cleve  had  a  trick 
of  drawing  flags  on  everything  that  belonged  to 
him  —  "  his  mark,"  he  called  it ;  and  here  it  was 
plain  enough  —  a  tiny  Union  flag,  traced  with 
something  sharp  on  a  smooth  spot  of  the  coin. 
There  was  no  getting  over  slich  evidence  as  that,, 
and  Russell  could  only  think  of  the  old  school- 
boy sophistry,  that  if  a  thing  was  lost,  it  belonged 
to  the  finder. 

Poor  as  the  argument  was,  the  longer  he  dwelt 
upon  it,  the   more  plausible  it  seemed  to  him. 


^4  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

Other  thoughts  came  to  help  it  out,  too.  Cleve 
had  forgotten  all  about  the  quarter,  —  he  had 
plenty  of  money  now,  more  than  he  needed,  — 
he  had  given  this  up  for  lost,  —  and  what  was 
the  use  of  saying  anything  about  it  after  all  this 
time?  What  good  did  it  do  anybody  lying  in 
the  ground?  It  might  be  there  still,  if  it  wasn't 
for  him,  and  after  he  had  taken  the  trouble  to 
find  it,  why,  he  had  the  best  right  to  use  it,  of 
course ! 

Poor  Russell !  he  did  not  see,  in  his  eagerness 
to  yield  to  temptation,  how  silly  he  was,  as  well 
as  dishonest.  It  was  small  "  trouble "  he  had 
taken  to  find  the  quarter  ;  but  it  helped  to  soothe 
his  conscience  to  imagine  that  the  finding  of  it 
was  an  act  of  merit  for  which  he  deserved  re- 
ward. 

He  got  up  at  last,  and  walked  down  the  street, 
not  towards  home,  but  towards  the  toy-shop  on 
Myrtle  Avenue.  He  had  not  made  up  his  mind 
,to  buy  the  paint-box  yet,  but  he  thought  he  would 
like  to  see  it  again,  and  he  wanted  a  new  slate- 
pencil,  besides.  Mr.  Fricke  thought  he  was  a 
very  long  time  deciding  upon  that  latter  article. 
He  turned  over  every  pencil  in  the  box,  meas- 
uring one  by  another,  and  then  examined  the 


RUSSELL'S  PAINT-BOX.  75 

painted  ones,  and  then  wanted  to  see  those  that 
were  enclosed  in  wood,  like  lead-pencils,  and 
finally  took  a  yellow  soapstone  after  all.  This 
matter  settled,  and  his  penny  paid,  he  still  hung 
around  the  shop  as  if  something  else  was  on  his 
mind. 

"  Want  anything  more  ? "  asked  Mr.  Fricke, 
who  was  getting  a  little  tired  of  his  customer. 

"No-o,"  said  Russell,  hesitatingly,  "I  guess 
not.  I  don't  know,  though  —  let  me  see  that 
paint-box  again,  won't  you  ?  the  one  you  said  I 
could  have  for  twenty  cents." 

"  For  twenty-Jive  cents,  you  mean,"  said  Mr. 
Fricke,  with  emphasis.  "  That's  the  very  lowest 
price,  and  ifs  cheap  at  that.  These  are  first- 
class  colors,  Mr.  Russell." 

He  brought  out  the  paint-box,  drew  ofF  the 
sliding  cover,  and  displayed  all  the  little  squares 
of  color,  and  the  tiny  hair-pencils,  to  Russell's 
longing  eyes.  Can  you  wonder  that  his  last 
scruples  vanished  before  the  sight?  Temptation 
got  the  upper  hand  of  conscience,  and  in  another 
minute  the  quarter  —  Cleve's  quarter — jingled 
down  amongst  other  coin  in  Mr.  Fricke's  till, 
while  Russell,  with  his  heart  beating  a  good 
dea]  louder  than  usual,  bore  away  his  treasure, 


76  BIRDS   OF  A   FEATHER. 

wrapped  in  paper,  and  tucked  out  of  sight  in  his 
deepest  pocket. 

He  did  not  feel  like  stopping  to  play  with  the 
boys  on  his  way  home.  He  hurried  on  as  fast 
as  he  could,  and  ran  to  the  garret  as  soon  as  he 
reached  the  house.  The  shreds  of  pink  tissue- 
paper  still  lay  on  the  floor,  but  his  little  brothers 
had  gone,  and  no  one  was  there  to  see  him.  So 
he  ventured  to  take  ofF  the  wrapping-paper,  and 
look  at  his  box  —  the  precious  box,  for  which  he 
had  paid  such  a  heavy  price. 

He  began  to  feel  already  that  the  price  was 
more  than  the  possession ;  that  he  had  given 
treasure  for  a  trifle.  As  indeed  he  had,  —  his 
honesty  and  his  peace  of  mind:  two  treasures 
that,  if  he  had  only  been  wise  enough  to  know 
it,  were  worth  more  to  him  than  all  the  color- 
boxes  the  world  ever  saw.  Some  dim  conscious- 
ness of  this  truth  came  to  him  as  he  looked  down 
at  the  box,  with  a  suspicion  that  the  cakes  of 
paint  looked  dingier,  and  the  brushes  smaller, 
than  when  they  were  in  the  shop.  But  it  was 
too  late  now  to  be  sorry ;  so  he  struggled  against 
the  better  feeling,  and  tried  to  make  himself 
believe  that  he  had  done  quite  right,  and  would 
do  it  again  if  the  same  thing  happened.  But  he 


RUSSELL'S  PAINT-BOX.  77 

did  not  do  any  painting  that  afternoon,  although 
he  staid  up  in  the  garret  till  the  bell  rang  for  tea. 
He  did  not  bring  the  box  down  stairs  either, 
but  hid  it  away  carefully  amongst  his  own  pecu- 
liar possessions  that  nobody  ever  meddled  with. 
He  had  no  wish  to  show  it  and  tell  how  he 
came  by  it. 

So  there  it  lay,  day  after  day ;  and  for  all  the 
pleasure  Russell  had  in  it,  it  might  as  well  have 
been  in  the  shop-window  still.  He  hardly  ever 
dared  to  take  it  out,  for  there  were  so  many 
children  always  running  up  and  down  ;  and  if 
they  ever  guessed  that  Russell  was  in  the  garret, 
they  were  sure  to  be  there,  too.  Once  or  twice 
he  got  a  chance  to  paint  a  picture  or  two  in  his 
old  geography  without  interruption  ;  but  it  was 
dull  fun,  after  all,  with  no  one  to  look  on  and 
make  suggestions  as  to  whether  the  sailor-boys 
should  have  blue  jackets  and  white  trousers,  or 
•vice  versa,  and  whether  the  tigers  should  be 
painted  with  chrome  yellow  or  ochre.  Before 
the  week  was  out,  he  wished,  in  his  secret  heart, 
though  he  would  not  own  it  to  himself,  that  the 
paint-box  was  back  in  Fricke's  shop,  and  the 
quarter  in  Cleve  Morris's  pocket,  or  else  in  the 
ground  where  he  found  it. 


^8  BIRDS   OF  A   FEATHER. 

He  had  more  reason  to  wish  it  than  he  was 
aware  of,  for  the  punishment  of  his  dishonesty 
was  close  at  hand.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him 
that  anybody  could  discover  it  unless  he  chose 
to  tell,  and  it  was  only  his  own  accusing  con- 
duct which  troubled  him  —  not  any  fear  of  out- 
side disgrace.  But  that  came,  too,  in  a  way  he 
had  never  anticipated. 

One  day,  at  recess,  Dick  Foster  pulled  a  piece 
of  money  out  of  his  pocket.  "  Look  here, 
Cleve,"  said  he,  "isn't  this  your  mark?" 

"  So  it  is ! "  exclaimed  Cleve,  after  he  had 
looked  at  it  a  moment.  "  My  mark,  and  my 
money,  too !  It's  the  very  quarter  I  lost  in 
April,  and  I'd  just  like  to  know  how  you  came 
by  it?" 

"  Fair  and  square,"  said  Dick.  "  I  got  it  at 
Fricke's  last  night,  in  change  for  a  half;  and  I 
knew  it  must  have  passed  through  your  hands 
some  time  or  other,  when  I  saw  the  old  Star- 
spangled  —  long  may  she  wave  !  " 

"  You  hit  the  mark,"  said  Cleve,  thoughtfully. 
"  I  certainly  scratched  that  flag  there  —  it's  cer- 
tainly my  quarter." 

"Not  quite!"  cried  Dick,  laughingly.  "It's 
my  quarter  now,  so  fork  it  over,  old  fellow  ! " 


RUSSELL  S     PAINT-BOX.  79 

"  O,  of  course ! "  and  Cleve  tossed  the  coin 
back  into  Foster's  hands.  "  I'm  curious  to  know 
how  Fricke  got  it,  though  ;  I  could  swear  it  was 
the  very  one  I  lost  out  of  my  last  month's  allow- 
ance." 

"  Some  fellow  found  it,  I  suppose,  and  was 
mean  enough  to  spend  it." 

"  Think  so  ?  I'll  stop  at  Fricke's  after  school 
and  ask  him.  I'd  just  like  to  know  if  any  of 
our  fellows  would  do  such  a  shabby  trick." 

The  two  boys  moved  away,  and  Russell,  who 
had  been  standing  out  of  sight,  but  in  full  hear- 
ing, heard  no  more.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  he 
felt.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  his  shame  and  confu- 
sion, and  the  terror  that  filled  his  mind  as  he 
thought  how  Cleve  would  be  sure  to  trace  the 
quarter  to  him,  and  expose  him  before  all  his 
schoolmates.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  spent  so 
wretched  an  afternoon,  never  so  learned  by  heart 
the  bittej:  fact  that  "  the  way  of  the  transgres- 
sor is  hard" 

As  for  Cleve,  in  his  careless  way,  he  forgot  all 
about  the  thing,  until  in  going  home  he  fiad  to 
pass  by  the  toy-shop.  Then  it  came  back  to 
him,  and,  "just  for  curiosity,"  he  went  in  to 
make  his  inquiries.  Mr.  Fricke  remembered 


80  BIRDS   OF   A  FEATHER. 

the  coin.  He  had  noticed  the  flag  on  it  when  it 
was  given  to  him.  Russell  Holmes  paid  it  in 
exchange  for  a  paint-box  about  a  week  ago. 

"  All  right,"  said  Cleve.  "  It  was  only  to  set- 
tle a  little  dispute  that  I  wanted  to  know." 

And  he  walked  out "  of  the  shop.  But  once 
outside,  it  was  not  so  easy  to  restrain  his  honest 
indignation  and  contempt.  He  never  could  have 
done  such  a  thing  himself,  and  it  was  hard  to 
have  patience  with  such  meanness  in  one  whom 
he  had  supposed  his  friend,  and  with  whom  he 
had  always  shared  freely  his  own  luxuries.  If 
he  had  obeved  his  first  impulse,  called  out  by 
these  thoughts,  he  would  have  told  the  story  to 
the  whole  school,  and  justified  himself  by  declar- 
ing that  "  it  served  him  right ;  such  a  mean  trick 
ought  to  be  known." 

But  a  second  thought  came,  and  something  — 
he  could  not  tell  "what  —  made  him  think  of  the 
prayer  which  his  mother  had  taught  him  when  he 
was  a  little  child,  and  which  he  still  repeated 
every  day  of  his  life,  — "  Forgive  us  our  debts, 
as  we  forgive  —  " 

"  Well,"  thought  Cleve,  "  I  guess  I  won't  show 
him  up,  after  all.  Maybe  he  didn't  really  know 
it  was  mine,  and  he  never  has  much  money  of 


RUSSELL'S  PAINT-BOX.  Si 

his  own,  —  that's   one   excuse  for   him,   at   any 
rate.     I  wish   I   hadn't  found  it  out,  that's  all." 


Russell  came  to  school  the  next  day  with  fear 
and  trembling.  He  knew  directly  from  Cleve's 
manner,  though  not  a  word  was  said,  that  the 
truth  was  discovered ;  and  he  expected  nothing 
less  than  to  hear  it  told  publicly,  to  Dick  Foster 
and  the  rest,  as  soon  as  recess  came.  But  to  his 
intense  surprise  and  relief,  the  play-hours  passed 
by  without  the  dreaded  disclosure.  Cleve  was  a 
little  cool,  to  be  sure,  —  so  was  Dick  Poster,  — 
but  it  was  nothing  that  any  one  else  would 
notice,  and  all  the  rest  were  just  the  same  to 
him.  He  began  to  comprehend,  at  last,  the 
generosity  with  which  his  companion  was  treat- 
ing him.  It  was  almost  harder  to  bear  than 
public  shame  would  have  been,  his  own  mean- 
ness looked  so  black  by  contrast ;  and  that  night, 
when  he  went  to  bed,  he  fairly  cried  himself  to 
sleep  with  sorrow  and  humiliation. 

The  next  day  a  good  impulse  came  to  him, 
which  he  obeyed  before  it  had  time  to  cool.  He 
wrapped  up  the  paint-box,  and  wrote  a  little  note 
to  Cleve,  begging  him  to  take  it,  because  he  had 
no  money  to  pay  him  with,  and  confessing  how 
6 


02  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

and  when  he  had  found  the  quarter.  He  carried 
these  to  Mrs.  Morris's  house  and  left  them,  and 
when  Cleve  came  home  and  found  them,  you 
may  be  sure  he  was  glad  that  he  had  kept  to  his 
kind  conclusion.  He  didn't  rest  until  he  had 
seen  Russell,  and  assured  him  that  "  he  did  not 
care  about  it,  not  the  least  in  the  world,  and 
they  would  say  no  more  about  it,  but  just  be  as 
good  friends  as  ever." 

And  he  was  as  good  as  his  word.  More  than 
that,  when  Christmas  came,  he  sent  him  the 
identical  paint-box,  as  good  as  ever,  for  a  pres- 
ent. As  for  Russell,  he  took  the  lesson  to  heart, 
and  from  that  time  never  thought  that  anything 
in  the  world  was  worth  having,  if  it  had  to  be 
purchased  at  the  expense  of  honesty. 


BESSIE'S  FRIEND. 

I  WISH  I  could  go  to  see  Julia  Sherman  —  I 
don't  see  why  I  mightn't,  mamma,  I'm 
sure !  " 

It  was  Bessie  Henshaw  —  a  little  girl  whose 
face  would  have  been  pretty  and  sweet  if  it  had 
not  been  disfigured  just  then  by  a  very  decided 
pout  on  the  lips — who  made  this  remark.  She 
was  standing  by  the  nursery  window,  drumming 
on  the  pane  in  a  most  uncomfortable  state  of 
mind ;  for  her  mother,  as  Bessie  thought,  was 
very  unkind  indeed.  Julia  Sherman  was  one  of 
her  schoolmates,  and  had  asked  her  to  spend  the 
afternoon  with  her ;  and  Bessie  had  promised 
to  do  so,  taking  her  mother's  permission  for 
granted ;  but  when  she  came  to  ask  it,  merely 
as  a  matter  of  form,  Mrs.  Henshaw  quietly  and 
firmly  said,  "  No." 

"  I  do  not  wish  you  to  be  intimate  with  Julia 
Sherman,"  she  went  on  to  say.  "  You  have  to 
meet  her  at  school,  and  will,  of  course,  always 

(83) 


84  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

be  kind  to  her  there.  But  I  cannot  let  you  go  to 
her  house,  and  I  would  rather  not  have  her  here 
again.  She  is  not  a  good  companion  for  my 
daughter." 

"I  wonder  why?"  was  Bessie's  fretful  ex- 
clamation. "  The  other  girls  go  to  see  her  ;  I 
don't  see  why  /can't  as  well  as  they." 

"  I  cannot  help  what  the  other  girls  do,  and  it 
is  no^ie  of  my  business,"  said  Mrs.  Henshaw. 
"  But  it  is  my  business  to  see  that  my  little 
daughter's  good  manners  are  not  corrupted  by 
evil  communications." 

"  I  don't  get  any  evil  communications  from 
her,"  said  Bessie,  sullenly.  "  She's  just  as  good 
as  I  am  —  now  !  " 

"  Perhaps  so,"  Mrs.  Henshaw  answered, 
quietly.  "  You  are  not  a  model  of  good  man- 
ners at  this  present  moment,  Bessie  ;  still,  I  hope 
you  have  not  yet  learned  to  tell  falsehoods,  and 
take  things  that  do  not  belong  to  you,  as  Julia 
Sherman  does." 

Bessie  longed  to  say,  "  O,  mamma  !  Julia  Sher- 
man doesn't; "  but  she  knew  too  well  that  the 
charge  was  true.  She  remembered  more  than 
one  occasion,  when  Julia  had  been  there,  and 
taken  oranges  from  the  nursery  closet  when 


BESSIE'S  FRIEND.  85 

there  were  no  grown  people  by,  and  pulled  June 
apples  in  the  garden,  making  Bessie  promise  not 
to  tell.  Only  the  last  time  she  was  at  the  house, 
Mrs.  Henshaw  had  detected  her  in  the  act  of 
helping  herself  to  some  jelly  that  had  been  left 
on  the  sideboard  in  the  dining-room,  where  the 
children  had  been  allowed  to  play  ;  and  from 
that  time  she  decided  to  break  up  the  intimacy 
as  soon  as  possible. 

The  little  girl  knew  that  the  case  was  hopeless, 
as  her  mother  laid  lier  work  down  and  went  out 
of  the  room  after  these  last  words.  If  she  had 
been  a  reasonable  little  girl,  she  would  have 
given  it  up  quietly,  and  amused  herself  in  some 
other  way,  trusting  that  her  mother  knew  best 
what  was  good  for  her.  But  I  am  sorry  to  say 
that  Bessie  was  not  always  a  reasonable  little 
girl,  and  in  this  matter  she  behaved  very  foolishly 
indeed  ;  for  she  put  her  head  down  upon  the 
window-sill,  and  cried  with  disappointment  and 
vexation,  thinking  her  mother  excessively  strict, 
and  herself  very  ill  used. 

The  door-bell  rang  in  the  midst  of  this  per- 
formance, and  Bessie,  in  spite  of  her  misery,  had 
curiosity  enough  to  peep  over  the  banisters,  and 
see  who  had  come.  It  was  only  an  aggravation 


00  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

to  see  that  there  were  visitors  for  Mrs.  Henshaw, 
and  to  hear  the  sound  of  their  cheerful  voices  in 
the  parlor  below.  She  went  back  to  her  place 
by  the  window,  feeling  "  crosser  "  than  ever. 

"  It's  real  mean,  I  do  declare  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
aloud.  "  Mamma  can  have  company  as  much  as 
she  pleases,  and  she  doesn't  care  how  lonely  I 
am  up  here.  I  say  it's  too  bad  !  " 

"  So  it  is  !  "  exclaimed  another  voice,  over  her 
shoulder  ;  and  Bessie  jumped  with  astonishment, 
as  well  she  might,  for  there  stood  Julia  Sherman 
herself,  close  beside  her  ! 

"Did  you  think  I  was  a  ghost?"  she  said, 
laughing  at  Bessie's  startled  look. 

"How   did  you  get    in?"    exclaimed    Bessie.' 
"When  the  bell  rang,  just  now?" 

"  No,  indeed  !  It  was  some  ladies  that  came 
in  then.  I  saw  them  ;  and  one  was  that  horrid 
Mrs.  Chauncey.  She  hates  me,  and  I  hate  her, 
so  I  took  care  to  keep  out  of  her  way." 

"/don't  think  Mrs.  Chauncey's  horrid,"  said 
Bessie.  "  She  is  always  very  kind  to  me  when  I 
go  to  see  Pauline  and  Amy." 

"  She  was  anything  but  kind  to  me  when  / 
went,"  retorted  Julia.  "  And  so  I  hate  her." 

She  forgot  to  explain  that  her  own  misconduct 


BESSIE'S  FRIEND.  87 

ivas  the  cause  of  Mrs.  Chauncey's  unkindness,  so 
tailed.  But  Bessie  guessed  at  the  truth,  and  did 
not  pursue  the  subject. 

"  Kow  did  you  get  in?"  she  asked  again,  re- 
peating her  first  question. 

"  Through  the  basement ;  how  stupid  you 
are  !  "  answered  Julia,  sharply.  "  Your  cook  let 
me  in,  and  I  came  after  you,  to  take  you  home 
with  me.  What  kept  you  so  long,  anyway?  " 

"  I  couldn't  go,"  said  Bessie,  plaintively,  "  and 
I  can't  now." 

"Why  not,  I  wonder?  What's  the  matter 
with  you?  You've  been  crying,  I  do  believe!" 

"  O,  mamma  won't  let  me  go  to  see  you  this 
afternoon,"  said  Bessie,  ready  to  cry  again. 
"  That's  what  the  matter  is,  and  I  think  it's 
real  mean." 

"  And  so  do  I !  "  cried  Julia,  angrily.  "  What's 
the  reason  she  won  t  let  you  ?  " 

"  O,  because  —  I  don't  know  —  because  she 
ivon't,"  Bessie  answered,  hesitatingly,  unwilling 
to  give  the  true  reason  of  her  mother's  refusal. 

"  It's  just  because  she  doesn't  like  me,"  Julia 
exclaimed,  her  face  getting  red  with  passion. 
"  I  don't  like  her,  either,  one  bit !  My  mother 
isn't  half  so  cross.  I  mean  to  go  home,  and 
never  come  here  a^ain  !  " 


88  BIRD'S   OF   A   FEATHER. 

And  she  sprang  towards  the  door  ;  but  Bessie 
caught  hold  of  her  dress  in  dismay,  and  begged 
her  not  to  go.  She  was  frightened  at  Julia's 
anger,  and  not  willing  to  lose  her  company,  now 
that  she  had  come  so  unexpectedly. 

"  Don't  go,  Julia,  please  don't,"  she  pleaded. 
"  It  isn't  true  that  mamma  doesn't  like  you.  She 
likes  you  as  well  as  any  of  the  girls." 

"  Then  why  won't  she  let  you  come  to  see 
me?"  asked  Julia,  still  angrily,  but  stepping 
back  a  little.  "  I've  been  here  three  dozen 
times  since  you  were  at  our  house.  You  never 
come." 

"  What  nonsense  —  three  dozen  !  "  laughed 
Bessie. 

"Well,  never  mind,  often  enough.  And  now 
I  want  to  know  why  you  are  not  to  come." 

"  Mamma  has  got  company  this  afternoon," 
said  Bessie,  giving  the  only  excuse  she  could 
think  of,  "  and  I  must  stay  in  the  nursery  till 
they  are  gone." 

"  What  for?    Why  can't  Bridget  be  here ? " 

"  O,  I  guess  she's  gone  out ;  I  don't  know," 

Bessie    answered,    hastily,   getting    anxious    to 

change    the    subject.     She   knew   she   was   not 

telling  the    strict   truth,  by  any  means.     "  You 


BESSIE'S  FRIEND.  89 

stay,  anyway,  and  we'll  have  a  nice  play  to- 
gether before  Charlie  wakes  up.  Come  over  by 
the  window,  and  I'll  show  you  my  dissected  map. 
Papa  brought  it  to  me  last  night,  and  I  can  put 
it  all  together,  myself.  Come  try  if  you  can." 

But  Julia  hung  back  still.  "  I  don't  like  dis- 
sected maps.  There's  no  fun  poking  over  those 
little  crooked  bits  of  wood.  I  won't  stay  unless 
you'll  play  party." 

"  But  I  haven't  anything  to  play  party  with  !  " 
Bessie  exclaimed.  "  I  had  some  sugar-plums, 
but  they're  all  gone,  and  I  haven't  a  thing 
now." 

"  Well,  you  must  get  something,  or  else  I 
won't  stay.  You  can  get  lots  of  things  down 
stairs,  I  know,  and  your  mother  always  has 
oranges  in  this  closet  besides.  I  mean  to  look 
if  there  are  not  some  here  now." 

Julia  opened  the  closet  door  as  she  spoke,  and 
began  to  climb  upon  a  chair,  to  search  the  upper 
shelves.  Bessie  watched  her,  knowing  very  well 
that  she  was  doing  a  rude  and  impertinent  thing, 
and  that  it  was  her  duty  to  forbid  it.  But  she  was 
afraid  to  say  a  word  ;  so  Julia  rummaged  the 
closet  to  her  heart's  content,  highly  delighted  at 
the  opportunity.  The  first  treasure  that  she  dis 


9O  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

covered  was  a  great  golden  shaddock,  which 
Bessie's  father  had  brought  home  the  night  be- 
fore, and  Mrs.  Henshaw  had  put  out  of  the  chil- 
dren's sight,  because  it  was  not  yet  ripe  enough 
for  them  to  eat.  Bessie,  as  it  happened,  had  not 
seen  it  at  all,  and  she  exclaimed,  with  astonish- 
ment, "  O,  what  a  big  orange  ! "  as  Julia  held 
it  up  triumphantly. 

"  It  isn't  an  orange,  it's  a  shaddock ! "  Julia 
cried,  jumping  down.  "  I've  seen  'em  before, 
and  they're  splendid  with  sugar  !  You  run  down 
stairs  now,  that's  a  good  girl,  and  get  a  whole  lot 
of  sugar,  and  then  we'll  have  an  elegant  party ! " 

"  But  I  can't !  "  exclaimed  Bessie,  in  dismay. 
"  Mamma  doesn't  let  me  have  sugar  unless  I  ask 
for  it ;  and  besides,  we  can't  have  that  orange  at 
all.  It  isn't  mine,  Julia,  and  you  must  put  it 
back  in  the  closet ;  indeed  you  must." 

"  Indeed  I  shan't,  then,"  Julia  returned,  coolly. 
"  I'm  going  to  cut  it  up  for  a  party,  and  you're 
going  to  get  some  sugar  to  put  over  it.  So  run 
along,  and  make  haste,  and  bring  up  a  piece  of 
cake,  too  ;  we  can't  have  a  party  without  cake." 

"  I  can't  do  it !  "  Bessie  repeated,  in  great  dis- 
tress. "  O,  please,  Julia,  don't  ask  me  !  Mam- 
ma would  be  so  vexed  when  she  found  it  out." 


BESSIE  S   FRIEND.  9! 

"  But  she  needn't  ever  find  it  out,"  said  Julia. 
"  You  are  not  such  a  goose  as  to  tell  her  every- 
thing you  do,  I  hope?" 

"  She'll  miss  the  shaddock,  and  she'll  be  sure 
to  ask  me  about  it,"  pleaded  Bessie  again. 

"  And  you  can  tell  her  you  never  saw  it,"  an- 
swered Julia,  boldly.  "  If  she  wasn't  real  mean 
she'd  never  make  a  fuss  about  such  a  little  thing ; 
and  when  people  are  mean,  it's  no  harm  to  tell 
them  a  story." 

This  was  a  new  argument  to  Bessie,  and,  not 
quite  seeing  through  the  logic,  she  had  nothing 
to  say.  Julia  went  on  still  more  boldly :  — 

"  If  you  don't  do  what  I  want  you  to,  I'll 
never  speak  to  you  again  as  long  as  I  live ;  and 
I'll  tell  all  the  girls  at  school  about  it,  so  they 
won't  speak  to  you,  either.  There,  now !  you 
can  just  take  your  choice." 

Poor  silly  little  Bessie !  she  listened  to  this 
awful  threat,  and  trembled  with  fear  of  it.  She 
did  not  think  enough  to  see  how  ridiculous  one 
half  of  it  was —  as  if  any  sensible  girl  in  school 
would  think  less  of  her  for  refusing  to  do  some- 
thing wrong  !  And  as  for  the  rest,  if  Julia  only 
would  keep  to  the  letter  of  her  threat,  and  never 
speak  to  Bessie  again,  why,  so  much  the  better 
for  Bessie ! 


92  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

But  no  one  was  by  to  whisper  this  in  the  little 
girl!s  ear,  and  she  was  already  corrupted  by  the 
evil  communications,  which,  a  little  while  ago, 
she  had  refused  to  believe  in.  It  seemed  better 
to  disobey  and  deceive  her  mother  than  to  dis- 
please this  bad  companion.  So  she  made  her 
choice. 

She  stole  softly  down  stairs,  feeling  guilty  and 
ashamed  of  herself,  but  still  determined  to  obey 
Julia's  orders.  The  dining-room  door  was  open, 
and  she  slipped  in  without  being  seen,  and  hastily 
filled  a  tea-cup  with  powdered  sugar  from  the 
sideboard.  A  silver  basket  full  of  cake  stood 
beside  the  sugar-bowl,  and  she  took  two  large 
pieces  from  that,  crammed  them  into  her  pocket, 
and  hurried  ofT  with  her  plunder  before  any  one 
came  in.  The  sound  of  her  mother's  voice  in 
the  parlor  made  her  tremble  as  she  crept  by  the 
door,  but  no  one  saw  her  after  all,  and  she  suc- 
ceeded in  reaching  the  nursery  safely.  There 
Julia  received  her  with  abundant  praise  and  flat- 
tery, till  the  poor  little  dupe  began  to  think  she 
had  done  something  clever  and  brave. 

In  her  absence  Julia  had  been  to  the  closet 
again,  and  found  a  box  of  guava  jelly,  which 
she  appropriated  to  her  own  use  as  coolly 


BESSIE'S  FRIEND.  93 

as  she  had  taken  the  shaddock.  Bessie,  of 
course,  could  not  say  anything  against  it  now ; 
and  Julia  began  to  set  out  "the  party"  with 
great  satisfaction. 

"Why  didn't  you  think  of  a  spoon?" -she 
asked  presently.  "  O,  never  mind  !  here's  your 
mother's  silver  fruit-knife  —  that  will  do." 

And  the  knife  —  a  very  nice  one  —  was  taken 
from  Mrs.  Henshaw's  work-box,  and  plunged 
into  the  thick  skin  of  the  shaddock.  The  sticky 
guava  jelly  was  served  with  the  same  thing — 
Julia  getting  a  large  mouthful  herself  before  she 
offered  any  to  her  hostess. 

Bessie,  however,  had  no  appetite  for  the  dain- 
ties :  every  sound  she  heard  filled  her  with  terror, 
lest  somebody  should  come  up  and  discover  what 
was  going  on.  Julia  was  not  in  the  least  dis- 
turbed. She  enjoyed  the  party  extremely,  and 
managed  to  eat  Bessie's  share,  as  well  as  her  own, 
without  any  difficulty. 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  home  now,"  she  said,  when 
the  last  crumb  of  cake  had  disappeared,  and 
there  was  nothing  left  of  the  fruit  but  its  thick 
bitter  rind.  "  The  ladies  down  stairs  are  getting 
ready  to  go  —  I  heard  them  moving." 

Bessie  had  heard  the  same  thing,  and  she  was 


94  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

quite  willing  to  let  Julia  go  before  her  mother 
came  up  stairs.  Julia  herself,  bold  and  impu- 
dent as  she  was,  had  no  wish  to  meet  Mrs.  Hen- 
shaw  after  all  this,  and  so  her  good  by  was  said 
quickly.  Bessie  watched  her  as  she  bounded 
lightly  down  the  steps,  and  disappeared  in  the 
curve  of  the  stairway  that  led  to  the  basement 
hall.  She  heard  the  lower  door  shut  behind  her, 
and  the  next  moment  there  was  a  rustle  of  dress- 
es, and  Mrs.  Henshaw  and  her  visitors  came 
out  of  the  parlor.  There  were  some  last  words 
to  be  said  there,  and  it  gave  Julia  time  to  get  at 
a  safe  distance  from  the  house,  while  Bessie  stole 
back  to  the  nursery,  and  tried  to  look  as  if  noth- 
ing unusual  had  taken  place. 

It  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  do,  for  this  was  her 
first  actual  experiment  in  the  art  of  deceit,  and  it 
was  hard  to  keep  the  terror  that  was  in  her  heart 
from  showing  itself  on  her  face.  Little  Charlie, 
who  had  been  asleep  in  his  crib  in  the  curtained 
alcove,  lifted  up  his  curly  head,  with  a  pair  of 
very  wide-open  blue  eyes,  as  she  came  in ;  and 
she  snatched  him  up  with  a  great  feeling  of 
relief,  thinking  her  mother  would  take  less  no 
tice  of  her  now  that  Charlie  was  here  to  clairr,. 
her  attention.  But  the  relief  was  changed  into 


•BESSIE'S  FRIEND.  95 

dismay  by  the  first  words  which  the  little  fellow 
spoke. 

"  I'm  glad  that  bad  dirl's  all  done,"  he  said,  in 
his  broken,  baby  speech.  "  She's  a  naughty 
dirl,  and  I'll  tell  my  mamma  of  her." 

"Tell  her  what,  Charlie?  What  do  you 
mean?"  Bessie  exclaimed,  growing  pale  with 
fright. 

"•  How  she  toot  mamma's  bid  orange,  an'  made 
you  do  det  sudar,"  Charlie  answered,  promptly, 
"/saw  her,  an'  I'm  doin'  to  tell  mamma.  We 
won't  let  her  tome  here  any  more,  will  we,  sister  r  " 
"  O,  Charlie,  don't ! "  It  was  all  Bessie 
could  say,  for  she  felt  as  if  she  was  going  to 
faint,  in  this  new  and  unexpected  fear.  She  had 
not  thought  of  the  child  while  Julia  was  there, 
though  now  she  remembered  well  what  a  habit 
he  had  of  lying  quiet  in  his  crib  for  a  long  time 
after  waking  from  his  nap.  He  had  been  awake 
and  seen  the  whole  thing,  and  she  felt  only  too 
surely  that  he  would  do  just  as  he  said,  and 
"tell  mamma  all  about  it."  He  was  too  little 
to  be  coaxed  or  frightened  into  keeping  the 
becret;  he  could  not  be  made  to  understand, 
as  she  knew  in  her  heart ;  yet  she  was  so  wild 
with  terror  that  she  began  eagerly  to  beg  him 


96  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

not  to  tell,  and  promise  him  all  sorts  of  pleas- 
ures if  he  would  not  say  anything  about  Julia. 
She  did  not  think,  in  her  excitement,  how  loudly 
she  was  talking,  or  remember  how  near  her 
mother  was  to  her;  and  just  as  poor  little  Char- 
lie, frightened  by  her  vehemence,  and  bewildered 
by  the  whole  affair,  had  begun  to  cry,  Mrs.  Hen- 
shaw  came  into  the  room. 

"  Bessie !  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?" 
she  asked,  severely ;  and  one  frightened  glance  at 
her  face  told  the  poor  child  that  any  attempt  at 
concealment  or  deception  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion now.  She  stammered  some  incoherent  an- 
swer that  could  not  be  heard,  broke  down  in  the 
middle  of  it,  and  burst  into  tears.  At  that 
moment  she  realized  that  her  mother's  favor 
and  approval  were  of  more  consequence  to  her 
than  Julia  Sherman's,  and  she  wished,. then,  at 
least,  if  not  before,  that  she  had  made  her  choice 
from  that  stand-point. 

She  wished  it  still  more,  when,  in  answer  to 
her  mother's  close  questioning,  she  had  to  tell 
the  whole  story :  to  confess  how,  in  the  first 
place,  she  had  persuaded  Julia  to  stay,  when 
she  knew  it  was  wrong,  and  afterwards  had  lent 
herself  so  weakly  to  be  the  tool  of  Julia's  greedi- 


BESSIE'S    FRIEND.  97 

ness  and  trickery.  The  whole  thing  looked  so 
contemptible  when  it  was  set  out  plainly  before 
her !  She  "  had  gone  through  so  much  to  get  so 
little,"  as  the  saying  is  ;  for,  after  all,  what  pleas- 
ure had  she  felt  in  Julia's  visit?  Not  a  single 
minute  of  the  time  but  had  been  tortured  with 
anxiety,  and  fear,  and  self-reproach,  all  to  end 
in  the  shame  and  distress  she  felt  now,  and  the 
loss  of  her  mother's  confidence. 

It  does  one  good  sometimes,  however,  to  grow 
heartily  ashamed  of  one's  self.  Bessie  had  felt 
so  sure  of  her  own  "good  manners"  hitherto, 
that  she  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  be  on 
her  guard  against  the  danger  of  "  evil  communi- 
cations." But  she  recognized  her  mother's  wis- 
dom now  in  contrast  to  her  own  foolishness  ;  and 
henceforth  was  willing  to  be  guided  by  that 
wisdom  in  the  choice  of  her  companions. 

Julia  Sherman  had  no  more  "  parties  "  at  Bes- 
sie's expense.  In  fact  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
that  "  it  would  not  pay "  to  go  there  any  more 
after  this  ;  so  she  devoted  herself  to  some  new 
pupils  who  had  just  arrived,  and  "  turned  the 
cold  shoulder"  to  Bessie.  For  which  Mrs. 
Henshaw  felt  sincerely  obliged  to  her,  and  Bes- 
sie herself  was  not  greatly  grieved. 
7 


SPENCER'S   CHERRIES. 

"  TF  there  is  one  kind  of  fruit  that  I  like  better 
-L  than  another,"  said  Spencer  Lane  to  himself, 
"  it's  cherries.  Strawberries  are  very  good  till 
you  get  enough  of  'em,  but  I  never  had  as 
many  cherries  as  I  wanted  in  my  life.  I  guess 
I  would  for  once,  though,  if  my  father  would 
give  me  leave  to  climb  that  tree ! " 

The  boy  leaned  back  in  the  garden-chair,  and 
cast  longing  eyes  into  the  thick,  leafy  branches 
above  him,  where  scarlet  clusters  of  fruit  hung 
ripening  in  the  sunlight  far  out  of  his  reach. 
The  tree  looked,  certainly,  very  tempting,  with 
that  beautiful  bright  color  gleaming  everywhere 
through  the  dark  green  leaves ;  and  this  warm 
June  afternoon,  when  he  was  tired  and  heated 
with  his  long  morning  of  play,  the  idea  of  the 
cool,  juicy  cherries  was  most  attractive  to  Spen- 
cer's fancy. 

"  I  don't  see  why  papa  need  be  so  particular," 
he  went  on,  in  a  complaining  tone,  speaking  his 

(98) 


SPENCER'S  CHERRIES.  99 

thoughts  aloud,  as  if  some  one  were  there  to 
answer  them. 

"  Anybody  might  see  those  cherries  are  ripe 
—  red  as  they  look  ;  and  the  idea  of  papa's  in- 
sisting they  are  not  to  be  touched  till  the  Fourth 
of  July  !  It's  ridiculous  to  have  to  wait  a  whole 
week  for  what  I  might  as  well  have  now.  I've 
a  great  mind  to  go  and  ask  mother  if  I  can't 
climb  up  and  see  if  they're  ripe.  Maybe  she 
won't  be  so  fussy." 

He  sprang  up  as  this  happy  thought  struck 

him,  and  ran  into  the  house,  to  lose  no  time  in 

* 
carrying  it  out.     Mrs.  Lane  was  sitting  in  the 

parlor,  in  her  afternoon  dress  of  delicate  sum- 
mer muslin  ;  her  white  hands  and  shining  hair 
made  a  striking  contrast  with  Spencer's  warm 
and  tumbled,  not  to  say  dirty,  appearance,  as  he 
rushed  without  ceremony  into  her  presence. 

"  I  say,  mother,"  he  began,  eagerly,  "  mayn't  I 
climb  the  cherry  tree?  Just  to  see  if  the  cher- 
ries are  ripe,  you  know.  They're  as  red  as  fire 
up  at  the  top.  Can't  I  do  it?" 

"  My  son  !  "  Mrs.  Lane  waved  him  from  her 
with  a  look  of  displeasure.  "  How  often  have  I 
told  you  never  to  come  into  this  room  unless  you 
look  like  a  gentleman  !  What  a  condition  youl 
face  and  hands  and  clothes  are  in ! " 


100  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

"  O,  pshaw  !  "  Spencer  gave  his  shoulders  an 
impatient  jerk.  "  Can't  a  fellow  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion without  being  dressed  up,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

He  hardly  intended  to  be  so  very  rude,  or  knew 
indeed  that  he  was  so,  in  his  haste  and  eager- 
ness, until  his  mother's  surprised  look  recalled 
him  to  consciousness.  But  then  it  was  too  late. 

"  You  can  leave  the  room,  Spencer,"  she  said, 
quietly  and  gravely,  '.'  and  do  not  come  back 
until  you  are  dressed  as  you  should  be,  and  can 
speak  to  me  rather  more  respectfully." 

"But  can't  I  climb  the  cherry  ti'ee?"  he  per- 
sisted, in*  spite  of  her  reproof. 

"  Certainly  not.  I  am  surprised  at  your  ask- 
ing me,  when  you  know  your  father  has  forbid- 
den you  positively." 

It  was  useless  to  say  another  word,  of  course ; 
so  he  flung  himself  out  of  the  parlor  in  a  rage. 
He  had  fancied,  very  foolishly,  that  his  mother 
might  allow  him  to  do  what  his  father  had  for- 
bidden ;  and  he  was  so  unreasonable  as  to  be 
angry  and  disappointed  because  she  had  too 
much  good  sense  to  indulge  him.  He  did  not 
stop  to  think  —  I  suppose  children  don't,  as  a 
general  thing  —  that  it  would  be  wrong  and 
unwise  in  her  to  set  at  naught  his  father's  com- 


SPENCER  S    CHERRIES.  IOI 

mands.  He  only  knew  that  he  wished  for  the 
cherries  very  much,  and  the  more  he  thought  of 
them,  the  more  aggrieved  he  felt  himself  iu  not 
being  allowed  to  have  them. 

He  sulked  up  stairs  in  his  room  till  the  dinner- 
bell  rang,  and  would  not  have  gone  down  then 
only  that  hunger,  and  the  anticipation  of  green 
peas,  proved  too  much  for  his  dignity.  If  he 
had  not  been  in  such  a  bad  humor,  he  would 
have  cared  no  more  for  the  cherries  when  so  nice 
a  dinner  was  spread  before  him  ;  for  the  green 
peas  were  there,  with  stuffed  lamb,  and  delicious 
mealy  potatoes  ;  and  sliced  pineapple  and  sponge- 
cake for  dessert  —  things  that  he  really  liked 
better  than  cherries,  if  he  had  only  chosen  to 
think  so.  He  swallowed  his  food  in  sullen 
silence,  however,  paying  no  attention  to  his 
mother's  reproachful  glance ;  and,  as  soon  as 
dinner  was  over,  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went 
out  upon  the  sidewalk,  where  he  staid  ur.til  his 
father  called  him  in,  and  sent  him  to  bed. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  —  a  beautiful,  bright 
summer  Sunday,  —  when  the  week-day  noise  was 
hushed  in  the  streets,  and  the  song  of  the  birds 
•rang  out  instead  in  sweet  thanksgiving  strains. 
Under  Spencer's  window  there  were  roses  climb- 


IO2  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

ing  over  a  trellis,  their  pink  clusters  sparkling 
with  dewdrops,  and  breathing  out  delicious  fra- 
grance ;  along  the  garden-borders  there  were 
beds  of  purple  pansies,  and  clumps  of  carnations, 
and  lady-slippers,  and  phlox,  gay  with  blossoms ; 
while  all  over  the  fence  ran  morning-glory  vines, 
that  were  wonderful  to  look  at,  they  were  so 
thickly  hung  with  the  blue,  and  crimson,  and  pur- 
ple, and  pink,  and  streaked  and  spotted  bells. 

But  Spencer  looked  at  none  of  them,  beautiful 
as  they  all  were.  He  only  saw  the  cherry  tree, 
whose  scarlet  clusters  were  redder  than  ever  in 
the  brilliant  sunlight,  and  the  sight  recalled  all 
the  discontented,  impatient  feelings  of  the  night 
before.  He  had  gone  to  bed  without  repenting 
of  them,  so  of  course  they  were  the  first  to  visit 
him  again  in  the  morning. 

Going  to  church  did  not  do  him  much  good 
that  Sunday.  All  through  the  service  he  fidgeted 
in  his  seat,  shuffled  his  feet  about,  and  rustled 
the  leaves  of  his  prayer-book  on  purpose  to  an- 
noy his  parents,  so  completely  had  the  evil  spirit 
taken  possession  of  him.  And  even  when  he 
chose  to  sit  still,  he  did  not  listen  to  the  sermon, 
but  only  kept  thinking  how  unkind  they  were  to 
deny  him  the  pleasure  he  wished  for. 


SPENCER'S  CHERRIES.  103 

It  was  not  strange,  when  he  gave  himself  up 
to  such  wicked  thoughts,  that  another  more 
wicked  still  should  come  to  him  at  last.  This 
was  nothing  less  than  to  climb  the  cherry  tree, 
in  spite  of  being  forbidden,  and  to  do  it  that  very 
evening  after  his  father  and  mother  had  gone  to 
church,  so  that  there  would  be  no  danger  of 
his  being  seen.  You  will  wonder  that  he  dared 
to  think  of  such  a  thing  on  Sunday,  and  in 
church,  of  all  times  and  places ;  but  Satan  is 
bold  when  he  sees  that  we  are  willing  to  be 
tempted,  and  the  holiest  places  are  not  safe  from 
his  evil  whispers  as  long  as  our  own  hearts  open 
to  let  them  in. 

Spencer  did  not  consent  immediately  to  this 
sinful  plan  ;  but,  instead  of  driving  it  out  as  soon 
as  it  came  into  his  mind,  with  shame  and  dread, 
he  listened  to  it,  and  turned  it  over  and  over  in 
his  thoughts,  and  wondered  if  anybody  would 
ever  know,  until  the  end  of  it  was  —  what  the 
end  always  is  when  we  tamper  with  temptation 
—  that  he  determined  to  climb  the  tree,  and  shut 
his  eyes  to  the  sin. 

He  complained  of  a  headache  after  tea,  as  an 
excuse  for  not  going  to  church,  and,  as  no  one 
thought  of  doubting  his  word,  he  was  left  at 


104  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

home.  Mrs.  Lane  brought  him  her  vinaigrette, 
and  made  him  lie  down  on  the  sofa,  giving  him 
a  kiss  as  she  went  away,  and  telling  him  to  go 
to  sleep  and  forget  the  pain.  Spencer  would 
have  been  glad  if  she  had  not  kissed  him,  know- 
ing how  little  he  deserved  it.  It  made  him  so 
uncomfortable  for  a  little  while  that  he  almost 
resolved  to  give  up  his  evil  intentions.  But  he 
found  that  was  not  easy  to  do  now.  He  had 
yielded  to  Satan,  and  he  was  not  strong  enough 
to  draw  back. 

He  went  out  into  the  yard  as  it  grew  darker, 
and  seated  himself  in  the  garden-chair  under  the 
cherry  tree.  Everything  was  still  and  quiet 
around  him,  no  one  stirring  out  of  doors,  and 
not  even  a  servant  to  be  seen  at  the  windows. 
He  knew  there  was  no  danger  of  discovery  as 
far  as  they  were  concerned,  for  the  housemaid 
was  gone  out,  and  the  cook  was  more  likely  to 
be  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  house  gossip- 
ping  with  some  neighbor,  than  cooped  up  in  the 
kitchen  this  warm  evening.  Still  he  thought  he 
would  be  on  the  safe  side,  and  not  climb  the  tree 
till  it  was  quite  dark.  So  he  sat  out  in  the 
garden-chair,  with  the  dew  falling  on  his  uncov- 
ered head,  until  the  soft  summer  twilight  deep- 


SPENCER'S    CHERRIES.  105 

ened  into  night,  and  the  shadow  of  the  cherry 
tree  was  all  black  around  him.  Then  he  climbed 
upon  the  wood-shed,  over  which  its  branches 
hung,  and  from  which  it  was  easy  to  get  firm 
footing  on  the  lower  limbs. 

He  was  half  frightened  when  he  found  him- 
self fairly  in  the  tree,  and  stood  still  and  breath- 
less amongst  the  leaves  for  two  or  three  minutes, 
dreading  lest  any  one  should  see  or  hear  him. 
But  there  was  no  sound  at  all  except  the  sleepy 
twitter  of  a  bird  half  awake  on  her  nest.  So  he 
plucked  up  courage,  and  began  to  go  higher, 
where  the  ripe  cherries  were.  It  was  so  dusky 
that  he  could  tell  nothing  by  the  color,  and  the 
very  first  ones  that  he  put  in  his  mouth  were 
decidedly  sour  —  so  little  to  his  taste  that  he  was 
just  on  the  point  of  spitting  them  out  again, 
when  he  remembered,  in  time  to  save  himself, 
that  they  would  be  a  witness  against  him  if  they 
were  seen  on  the  ground. 

"  I  shall  have  to  feel  for  the  soft  ones,"  he 
thought,  as  this  came  into  his  mind.  "  It's  no 
fun  eating  such  sour  things  as  that  first  lot.  My 
teeth  are  all  on  edge  now.  It's  lucky  I  don't 
mind  swallowing  the  stones,  though.  I  always 
did  think  it  was  a  bother  to  have  to  spit  'em  out." 


IO5  BIRDS    OF    A   FEATHER. 

"  Feeling  for  the  soft  ones "  proved  rather  a 
troublesome  task,  and  §pencer  got  many  a  sour, 
green  thing  in  his  mouth,  which  he  was  forced 
to  swallow  with  the  best  grace  he  could.  He 
did  find  some  that  were  ripe  and  sweet,  however, 
and  as  in  his  eagerness  he  grew  bolder,  and  ven- 
tured up  into  the  topmost  branches,  quite  a 

number  came  in  his  wav  that  he  declared  were 

• 

delicious.  I  doubt  if  he  enjoyed  them  as  much 
as  he  tried  to  make  himself  believe ;  but  at  any 
rate  he  devoured  a  great  many,  determined  "  to 
have  enough  for  once,"  and  did  not  come  down 
until  he  was  really  unable  to  eat  any  more. 

The  clock  was  striking  nine  as  he  crept  stealth- 
ily into  the  house,  and  he  hurried  up  stairs  to 
bed,  knowing  that  his  parents  would  soon  be  at 
home.  It  was  impossible  to  go  to  sleep,  how- 
ever, and  he  was  still  wide  awake  when  they 
arrived.  Mrs.  Lane,  missing  him  in  the  parlor, 
came  up  stairs  directly  to  look  for  him,  and  he 
found  it  terribly  hard  to  seem  to  be  asleep  as  she 
hung  over  his  bed,  the  gaslight  from  the  hall 
shining  full  in  his  face.  She  did  not  stay  long, 
fortunately,  and  when  she  was  fairly  gone  he 
tried  to  go  to  sleep  in  earnest.  But  it  was  a 
loii£  while  before  he  could  do  so.  He  tossed 


SPENCER'S   CHERRIES.  107 

about  the  bed  hour  after  hour,  and  when  every 
one  else  was  wrapt  in  quiet  slumber,  his  guilty 
conscience  still  would  not  let  him  rest.  In  vain 
he  closed  his  eyes  and  tried  not  to  think  of  any- 
thing. He  could  not  help  going  over  the  whole 
affair  in  his  mind,  trying  to  remember  whether  he 
had  been  very  careful  not  to  drop  a  single  cherry, 
or  get  a  stain  upon  his  clothes,  and  wonder- 
ing whether,  after  all,  anybody  could  have  seen 
him. 

He  dropped  to  sleep  at  last  from  absolute 
weariness,  and  forgot  it  all  for  a  few  hours  ;  but 
towards  morning  he  was  awakened  again  by  a 
very  uncomfortable  sensation.  He  could  not 
tell  what  the  matter  was  at  first,  but  he  found 
out  soon  when  there  came  a  spasm  of  pain  so 
violent  that  it  almost  took  his  breath  away. 
The  exposure  to  night  air,  and  the  unwhole- 
some food  together,  had  prepai'ed  a  punishment 
fot  him  which  he  had  not  thought  of  in  all  his 
plans ;  and  as  he  lay  now,  pale  and  quivering 
with  mingled  anguish  and  fear,  he  wished  with 
all  his  heart  that  he  had  never  done  so  foolish 
and  wicked  a  thing. 

He  bore  his  suffering  in  silence  for  a  while, 
hoping  that  by  keeping  quite  still  it  might  pass 


IDS  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

over ;  but  instead,  the  pain  grew  worse  and 
worse,  until  he  could  endure  it  no  longer  with- 
out help.  A  wild  fear  came  over  him  that  he 
was  going  to  die,  and  he  screamed  out  so  loudly 
that  his  mother  was  roused  from  her  sleep,  and 
came  hurrying  to  his  bedside  to  see  what  was 
the  matter.  She  saw  at  once  that  he  was  seri- 
ously ill,  though  she  did  not  for  a  moment  sus- 
pect the  cause.  She  remembered  the  headache 
that  he  had  complained  of  in  the  evening,  and 
supposed  that  his  disorder  had  really  begun  then. 
Full  of  pity  and  tenderness  for  him,  she  hastened 
to  apply  one  remedy  and  another,  until  at  length 
the  sharp  pangs  were  relieved,  and  Spencer, 
weary  and  exhausted,  once  more  fell  asleep. 

It  was  late  in  the  morning  when  he  awoke 
again.  His  head  was  aching,  his  mouth  parched, 
his  hands  dry  with  feverish  heat.  Mrs.  Lane 
was  sitting  by  the  bed,  watching  him  anxiously, 
and  she  gave  him  such  a  loving,  tender  smile  as 
his  eyes  unclosed,  that  a  sudden  pang  of  remorse 
and  shame  shot  through  his  heart. 

"The  doctor  has  been  to  see  you,  my  son, 
while  you  were  asleep,"  she  said,  gently,  "  and 
he  has  left  some  medicine  for  you.  Do  you  feel 
any  better  now  ?  " 


SPKNCER'S  CHERRIES.  109 

"  Not  much." 

Spencer  raised  himself  up,  and  swallowed  the 
medicine  which  his  mother  held  out  to  him,  but 
he  did  not  feel  like  saying  any  more.  He  was 
glad  he  had  been  asleep  when  the  doctor  came, 
for  he  dreaded  the  question  that  was  sure  to  be 
asked  —  had  he  eaten  anything  that  disagreed 
with  him?  It  was  put  oft'  till  another  day,  at 
least,  and  by  to-morrow,  perhaps,  he  would  be 
over  it. 

So  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  lay  there 
silently  hour  after  hour,  feeling  most  miserable 
in  mind  and  body.  His  head  was  throbbing 
with  a  burning  pain,  but  he  could  not  bear  to 
feel  his  mother's  cool,  soft  hand  upon  it ;  and 
every  tender,  pitying  word  she  spoke  did  but  add 
to  his  unhappiness.  For  he  knew  that  he  de- 
served no  kindness  ;  that  his  own  sin  had  caused 
all  his  suffering ;  and  that  he  had  no  right  to  any 
sympathy  or  care.  He  longed  secretly  to  throw 
his  arms  around  her  neck,  and  tell  her  the  whole 
truth,  but  his  courage  failed  as  often  as  he  tried 
to  speak  ;  the  words  clung  to  his  lips.  And  the 
day  wore  slowly  away,  as  he  lay  there,  still  with 
|iis  sin  unconfessed. 

Towards   evening   a   lady    called    to   see   his 


IIO  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

mother.  It  was  a  neighbor  who  visited  them 
intimately.  And  when  she  heard  that  Spencer 
was  sick,  and  Mrs.  Lane  up  stairs,  she  ran  up 
without  ceremony  into  Mrs.  Lane's  own  room. 
Spencer's  bed  was  in  the  hall-room  adjoining, 
and  the  door  was  open  between,  so  that  he  heard 
all  the  conversation.  At  first  it  amused  him,  and 
diverted  his  thoughts,  for  the  lady  was  gay  and 
talkative.  But  he  grew  uncomfortable,  by  and 
by,  for  she  had  taken  a  seat  by  the  window,  and 
began  to  notice  the  cherry-tree. 

"  How  full  of  fruit  it  is,  and  how  red  the  cher- 
ries begin  to  look !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  It's  a 
pity  they're  so  unwholesome  when  they  are  so 
pretty.  By  the  way,"  —  and  she  turned  sudden- 
ly to  Spencer,  —  "I  wonder  if  that  isn't  the 
matter  with  you,  young  gentleman?  I  saw 
somebody  about  your  size  climbing  up  the  tree 
last  night." 

"  No,  you  didn't,"  answered  Spencer,  quickly. 
But  his  face  grew  red  with  shame  as  he  spoke, 
and  the  next  minute  white  with  fear. 

"  O,  it  was  a  mistake,  then,"  the  lady  replied, 
hastily,  seeing  that  she  had  made  mischief.  "  It 
must  have  been  some  on,e  else  that  I  saw.  There 
are  so  many  boys  in  the  neighborhood,  you  know, 


SPENCER'S  CHERRIES.  in 

and  they're  always  ready  to  rob  a  fruit  tree,  if 
they  get  a  good  opportunity,"  she  added,  turning 
to  Mrs.  Lane. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Mrs.  Lane,  quietly.  "  I  do 
not  suppose  we  shall  be  exempt  from  the  general 
rule." 

And  there  was  nothing  more  said  about  it. 
The  lady  took  her  leave  soon  after,  and  Mrs. 
Lane  went  to  the  door  with  her ;  but  she  came 
back  instantly,  and  Spencer  saw,  from  one  hur- 
ried, ashamed  gla*nce,  that  her  face  was  as  pale 
as  death  as  she  stood  beside  his  bed. 

"  Is  it  possible,  Spencer,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a 
low  voice,  "  that  what  Mrs.  Ellis  said  of  you  is 
true?  Tell  me  at  once." 

Her  tone  was  as  gentle  as  ever,  but  how  full 
of  sorrow,  of  reproach,  of  pain  !  Spencer  could 
not  bear  it  any  longer ;  it  was  the  last  drop  in 
his  cup  of  misery ;  and  bursting  into  bitter  tears, 
he  threw  himself  in  her  arms  and  told  her  all. 

"  O,  mother,  mother,  only  forgive  me  !  I  never 
will  disobey  you  any  more  !  "  he  sobbed,  in  pas- 
sionate regret ;  and  his  mother  saw  that  his 
repentance  was  heartfelt. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  feel  this,  and  to  believe 
that  his  eager  promises  were  sincere.  So  she 


112  HIRES    OF   A    FEATHER. 

forgave  him ;  and  kneeling  by  his  sick  bed, 
prayed  that  God  would  forgive  him,  too,  and 
help  him  in  future  to  i-esist  temptation.  Spencer 
never  forgot  that  pra}'er :  the  broken,  sorrowful 
voice  that  pleaded  for  him  so  earnestly  ;  the  tears 
that  stood  upon  his  mother's  pale  cheek  when 
she  rose  up  ;  the  tender  and  yearning  look  which 
she  gave  him  when  she  left  the  room,  lingered  in 
his  heart  forever  after. 

Many  days  of  pain  and  weakness  followed 
this,  and  when,  at  last,  the  boy  was  able  to  creep 
out  of  bed,  and  sit  by  the  window  a  little  while, 
all  the  red  clusters  had  vanished  from  the  cherry 
tree,  and  only  the  green  leaves  were  fluttering  in 
the  summer  breeze.  But  Spencer  did  not  regret 
them :  he  only  thought  of  the  sin  and  suffering 
he  had  fallen  into,  and  prayed  in  his  heart  that 
he  might  profit  by  the  lesson  he  had  learned  so 
hardly. 


ROSY  LEE'S  THANKSGIVING. 

OOD    morning,    Rosy.      How's    grand- 

mother   to-day  ?  " 

"  O,  Miss  Miller,  how  do  you  do?  Good 
morning !  "  And  Rosy  Lee  stopped  in  her  brisk 
walk,  and  held  her  hand  out,  with  a  bright  look, 
to  the  lady  who  had  greeted  her  at  the  street- 
crossing. 

"  Very  well,"  answered  Miss  Miller,  pleasant- 
ly, "  and  I  see  you  are,  by  your  red  cheeks.  Is 
your  grandmother's  rheumatism  better?" 

"  Not  much,"  said  Rosy.  "  She  hardly  gets 
any  sleep  at  night,  her  arms  ache  so.  I  do  wish 
she  could  get  better." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Miss  Miller,  kindly  ;  "  and, 
by  the  way,  Rosy,  I've  got  a  prescription  that 
might  be  good  for  her.  Mrs.  Clinton  told  me  of 
it  yesterday.  She  has  had  a  great  deal  of  rheu- 
matism, and  nothing  ever  did  her  so  much  good, 
she  says." 

"  O,  please  tell  me  what  it  is ! "  Rosy  ex- 
claimed, eagerly. 

8  (113) 


114  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

"  You  must  get  a  quart  of  port  wine,  a  pound 
of  raisins,  and  a  pound  of  loaf  sugar,"  said  Miss 
Miller.  "  Mix  them  together,  and  take  a  wine- 
glass full  three  times  a  day.  It's  not  bad  to  take, 
you  see,  and  Mrs.  Clinton  says  it's  a  good  reme- 
dy. Your  grandmother  had  better  try  it;  it 
won't  hurt  her,  at  any  rate." 

"  I'll  tell  her  about  it,"  answered  Rosy  ;  "  and 
I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Miss  Miller." 

But  some  way  her  face  did  not  look  so  bright, 
and  her  voice  was  not  so  cheery  as  it  had  been  a 
minute  before  ;  and  when  Miss  Miller  said  good 
by,  and  turned  down  the  side  street,  Rosy  broke 
out  with  a  half  petulant,  half  sorrowful  exclama- 
tion :  — 

"  Port  wine,  and  raisins,  and  loaf  sugar,  in- 
deed !  Where  does  she  think  we're  going  to  get 
them,  when  we  can  hardly  afford  a  cup  of  tea 
for  grandma  to  drink?  O  dear!  if  I  only  knew 
how  to  earn  a  little  more  •  money  !  But  I  work 
as  hard  as  ever  I  can  now." 

The  bundle  of  finished  sewing  that  ^she  was 
carrying  home  proved  that  she  was  not  idle, 
indeed ;  and  anybody  who  had  peeped  into  old 
Mrs.  Lee's  tidy  little  lodging,  at  any  hour  of  the 
day,  would  have  found  out  the  same  truth  ;  for 


ROSY    LEE'S    THANKSGIVING.  115 

Rosy  was  busy  from  morning  till  night.  She 
was  cook,  and  laundress,  and  housemaid,  and 
everything  else  in  their  little  establishment,  for 
now  that  grandmother's  rheumatism  had  fallen 
into  her  arms  and  hands,  she  could  do  little  or 
nothing. 

Then,  in  addition  to  the  housework,  Rosy  had 
to  take  in  sewing  to  make  their  small  income 
sufficient  for  actual  necessaries  of  food  and 
clothing.  It  had  not  been  so  hard  when  her 
grandmother  was  well :  she  sewed  nicely,  and 
knit  beautiful  socks  and  mittens,  which  found  a 
ready  sale ;  and  Rosy  had  plenty  of  customers 
for  her  neat  work.  So  that.,  with  the  little  an- 
nuity which  her  father  had  left  for  them  when  he 
died,  they  had  managed  to  be  quite  comfortable, 
in  an  economical  way. 

But  things  were  different  now,  and  it  was  very 
hard  to  get  along  at  all.  So  much  more  work 
fell  upon  the  child  in  consequence  of  her  grand- 
mother's helplessness,  that  of  necessity  she  earned 
less  with  her  needle  ;  and  in  spite  of  her  cheer- 
ful disposition,  and  her  natural  habit  of  looking 
on  the  bright  side  of  tilings,  her  heart  grew  so 
heavy  sometimes  that  she  felt  ready  to  despair. 

"  I    wonder   what's  the   reason,"  she   thought, 


Il6  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

as  she  hurried  down  the  street,  "  that  some  peo- 
ple have  so  much  more  than  they  need  in  this 
world,  and  some  others  so  much  less.  Just  look 
at  Mrs.  Clinton  now.  Such  a  beautiful  house 
she  has,  and  everything  about  her  so  fine  and 
elegant ;  and  I  heard  Miss  Miller  say  she  was  so 
rich  she  didn't  know  how  to  spend  her  money. 
And  then  think  of  grandma  —  poor,  dear  grand- 
ma ! —  how  she  has  to  suffer  all  this  pain,  be- 
cause we  can't  afford  to  get  the  medicine  that 
would  cure  her  !  I  suppose  it  must  be  all  right, 
but  it  does  seem  very  strange  !  " 

Older  and  wiser  people  than  Rosy  have  puz- 
zled over  the  same  problem  many  a  time,  and 
always  will,  I  suppose,  till  the  world  comes  to 
an  end.  But  the  only  thing  to  do,  for  great  or 
small,  is  to  adopt  the  child's  faith,  and  believe 
that  "  it  is  all  right,"  because  it  is  God's  will,  — 
no  matter  how  strange  and  hard  it  may  seem 
sometimes. 

She  had  reached  Mrs.  'Clinton's  house  by  this 
time,  for  it  was  to  her  that  the  work  belonged  ; 
and  the  servant  who  was  shaking  the  mats  at 
the  door  told  her  to  "  go  right  up  stairs ;  Mrs. 
Clinton  was  waiting  for  her." 

So  Rosy    mounted  the  elegant  staircase,  and 


ROSY    LEES    THANKSGIVING.  117 

found  her  way  to  the  large  and  luxurious  cham- 
ber where  the  old  lady  sat  for  the  greater  part  of 
the  day.  She  was  seated  in  a  great  easy-chair, 
covered  with  velvet,  with  embroidered  cushions 
at  her  feet,  and  all  manner  of  beautiful  and  cost- 
ly things  around  her.  An  inlaid  table  at  her 
right  hand  held  a  silver  basket  full  of  superb  hot- 
house grapes ;  a  Bohemian  vase  in  the  window 
was  filled  with  the  loveliest  flowers ;  and  on  a 
marble  slab,  supported  by  a  mermaid  in  bronze, 
stood  a  salt-water  aquarium,  stocked  with  the 
choicest  of  sea-plants  and  fishes. 

This  last  had  been  an  unfailing  wonder  and 
delight  to  Rosy,  who  had  more  than  once  asked 
permission  to  watch  the  curious  flesh-colored 
anemones,  and  the  brilliant  fish  gliding  in  and 
out  of  the  pretty  rock-work  caves.  But  she  did 
not  give  it  a  single  glance  this  morning,  and 
stood  so  silent  and  sad  while  Mrs.  Clinton  ex- 
amined her  work,  that  the  old  lady  took  notice 
of  it,  and  asked  in  her  sharp  way,  peering  over 
her  spectacles,  — 

"  What  ails  you,  to-day,  that  you  look  so  glum? 
Have  you  come  to  trouble,  too,  like  all  the  rest 
of  the  world?" 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am,"  Rosy  answered,  shy- 


Il8  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

ly.  She  did  not  care  about  telling  her  poor  little 
home  sorrows  to  this  grand  old  lady. 

"  Don't  know  ?  You're  better  off  than  most 
people,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton.  "  If  you'd 
seen  the  trouble  /  have  you'd  be  apt  to  know." 

Rosy  wondered  what  sort  of  trouble  she  could 
have,  for,  like  a  good  many  other  people,  she 
had  the  notion  that  being  rich  was  a  sort  of 
security  against  trial.  She  did  not  venture  to 
say  anything,  however,  and  Mrs.  Clinton  asked 
her  no  more  questions.  She  took  out  her  purse 
to  pay  for  the  work,  and  then,  seeing  Rosy's 
eyes  fixed  on  the  handsome'  tidy  at  the  back  of 
her  chair,  she  asked  if  she  knew  how  to  crochet. 

Rosy  did,  and  a  bright  thought  sprung  up. 
Perhaps  Mrs.  Clinton  would  give  her  some 
crochet  work  to  do,  and  it  was  paid  for  so  much 
better  than  sewing,  that  she  might  possibly  get 
the  medicine  for  her  grandmother  after  all.  She 
was  not  mistaken,  for  Mrs.  Clinton  unfastened 
the  tidy  from  her  chair,  and  handed  it  to  Rosy, 
saying,  — 

"  If  you  think  you  can  copy  this  pattern,  you 
may  take  it  home  with  you,  and  make  me  an- 
other just  like  it.  And  I  want  a  set  of  table- 
mats  besides.  If  you  do  them  nicely,  I'll  pay 
you  a  good  price  for  them." 


ROSY    LEE'S    THANKSGIVING.  119 

Rosy  was  certain  of  that,  for  Mrs.  Clinton 
always  paid  her  generously,  and  she  accepted 
the  commission  with  a  happy  heart.  She  felt 
far  more  bright  and  hopeful  as  she  ran  briskly 
homeward  than  she  would  have  believed  possible 
half  an  hour  before  ;  and  she  worked  with  such 
a  hearty  good  will  all  day  long,  that  the  tidy  was 
one  third  done  before  night  came.  It  was  fin- 
ished before  she  went  to  bed  the  next  night,  and 
the  table-mats  were  begun  on  the  third  day. 
This  was  much  slower  work  than  the  tidy,  in 
spite  of  the  elaborate  pattern,  for  it  had  gll  to  be 
done  in  the  closest  and  thickest  stitch,  so  that  it 
took  a  good  while  to  complete  a  single  mat. 
But  she. worked  diligently  and  cheerfully,  resting 
herself,  when  she  was  tired,  with  the  pleasant 
hope,  that  grew  stronger  every  day,  of  being 
able  to  relieve  her  dear  grandmother  from  pain. 

So  three  weeks  went  by,  and  Thanksgiving 
Day  was  close  at  hand.  Rosy  had  no  bright 
visions  of  a  grand  company  dinner,  with  turkey 
and  plum  pudding,  and  any  quantity  of  nuts  and 
apples,  and  music  and  "  blindman's  buff"  in  the 
evening..  She  had  never  had  much  experience 
of  such  things ;  but  still  Thanksgiving  Day  had 
always  been  made  pleasant  to  her  by  a  little 


I2O  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

treat  of  some  kind.  And  she  looked  forward  to 
it  now  more  eagerly  than  ever  before,  for  she  felt 
almost  sure  that  her  crochet  work  would  bring 
her  money  enough  to  accomplish  the  purpose 
she  longed  for,  and  leave  something  over  besides 
for  a  nice  Thanksgiving  dinner.  There  were 
eighteen  mats  besides  the  tidy ;  and-  as  Rosy 
added  the  last  one  to  the  neat-looking  pile,  the 
day  before  the  twenty-ninth  of  November,  she 
felt  exceedingly  proud  and  happy. 

"  I  shall  get  five  dollars,  I  know ;  maybe 
more,"  she  thought,  as  she  walked  through  the 
street  with  her  pi'ecious  bundle  in  her  arms ; 
"  and  won't  grandma  be  surprised  when  she 
sees  what  I  shall  bring  her  !  I'll  get  it  this  very 
day,  as  soon  as  ever  Mrs.  Clinton  gives  me  the 
money." 

On  she  went  with  a  bounding  step,  singing 
little  scraps  of  songs  under  her  breath  as  she 
danced  along,  for  she  felt  so  happy  that  she 
could  not  walk  soberly.  Mrs.  Clinton's  house 
was  soon  reached  at  this  rate,  and  her  eager 
hand  gave  the  bell  a  vigorous  pull  that  brought 
a  servant  in  haste  to  the  door. 

"  O,  it's  you,  then?"  for  they  all  knew  Rosy's 
face  well  enough.  "  Why  didn't  you  pull  off 


ROSY   LEE'S    THANKSGIVING.  121 

the  bell-handle,  I  wonder?  What  are  you  come 
for  now  ?  " 

"  To  see  Mrs.  Clinton,  of  course  ;  I've  brought 
some  work  home,"  said  Rosy,  cheerfully,  for  she 
did  not  care  for  the  servant  girl's  saucy  ways. 

"  Well,  you  can't  see  her,"  was  the  answer. 
"  She  won't  see  nobody  to-day,  if  it  was  the 
king's  wife." 

"  O,  but  I  must !  "  Rosy  exclaimed.  "  Indeed, 
I  must.  It's  some  work  that  she's  very  particu- 
lar about,  and  she  wants  to  see  me  herself." 

"  I  can't  help  that,"  persisted  the  girl.  "  She's 
got  a  headache,  and  she's  given  orders  that  no- 
body is  to  disturb  her.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  disobey 
'em  for  you,  I  can  tell  you.  So  you'll  just  have 
to  call  again." 

"  O,  dear ! "  Rosy  was  ready  to  cry  in  her 
distress  and  disappointment.  "  I  do  want  to  see 
her  so  badly  !  Won't  you  please  just  tell  her  I'm 
here,  and  see  if  she  won't  let  me  come  up  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  I  shan't ! "  was  the  cross  reply. 
"  I  wouldn't  dare  to,  and  it's  all  nonsense,  any- 
how. You  can  come  again  easy  enough.  What's 
to  hinder  you?  So  be  off,  and  don't  keep  me 
bothering  here  any  longer." 

She  made  a  motion  as  if  to  shut  the  door  in 


122  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

her  face.  Rosy  retreated,  too  mortified  and 
angry  to  say  another  word,  and  ran  down  the 
steps  with  a  sob  choking  in  her  throat.  She 
had  hardly  got  to  the  bottom  before  the  door 
opened  again,  and  the  pert  voice  called  after 
her, — 

"  I  say !  don't  you  come  again  to-morrow ; 
for  we're  going  to  have  a  dinner  party,  and  Mrs. 
Clinton  won't  want  to  be  bothered  with  you. 
You  hear,  don't  you  ? " 

And  then  the  door  slammed  to,  and  poor  Rosy 
was  left  alone  in  the  street,  to  get  over  her  dis- 
appointment the  best  way  she  could.  It  seemed 
too  much  to  be  borne,  indeed ;  and  hot  tears 
blinded  her  eyes,  and  bitter  thoughts  swelled  in 
her  heart,  as  she  recalled  the  unjust  and  insolent 
way  in  which  she  had  been  treated. 

"  It's  just  because  Pm  poor,  and  poor  peo- 
ple are  always  treated  like  dogs ; "  she  said, 
passionately,  never  caring  that  she  spoke  aloud, 
and  anybody  might  hear  her.  "She  mustn't  be 
disturbed  when  she  has  a  headache ;  but  it  don't 
make  any  difference  how  many  headaches  I  have 
over  her  work.  And  as  long  as  her  Thanks- 
giving isn't  bothered,  it's  no  matter  whether  / 
have  any  or  not !  I've  a  great  mind  to  throw 


ROSY   LEE'S    THANKSGIVING.  123 

her  mats  in  the  street,  and  never  go  near  the 
house  again." 

She  was  hurrying  on,  too  full  of  her  grief  and 
anger  to  see  anybody  ;  and  so  it  happened  that, 
in  turning  a  corner,  she  ran  against  her  friend 
Miss  Miller,  and  had  almost  thrown  her  down, 
before  she  recognized  her.  She  muttered,  has- 
tily,— 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Miller ;  I  didn't 
mean  to  be  so  rude  ;  "  and  was  rushing  on  again, 
but  the  lady  held  her  back. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Rosy  ?"  in  wonder  at  the  child's  red  and  tear- 
stained  face.  "  I  don't  believe  I  ever  saw  you 
crying  before.  What  has  happened  to  you,  my 
dear?" 

The  kind  voice,  the  ready  sympathy,  were  too 
much  to  resist  in  Rosy's  excited  condition.  She 
broke  out  passionately  with  the  whole  story,  and 
told  Miss  Miller,  with  plenty  of  sobs  and  tears 
between,  all  about  her  three  weeks'  work,  and 
what  she  had  intended  to  do  with  the  money, 
and  how  all  her  plans  had  been  upset  by  Mrs. 
Clinton's  refusal  to  see  her. 

Miss  Miller  listened  with  the  deepest  interest. 
She  had  never  known  before  that  her  favorite 


124  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

pupil  in  her  Sunday  school  class  was  so  poor ; 
for  Rosy  and  her  grandmother  were  far  too 
proud  to  speak  of  their  wants.  She  never  would 
have  known,  except  for  this  accident  and  Rosy's 
excitement,  which  made  her  forget  pride  and 
everything  else  but  the  comfort  of  telling  her 
trouble  to  so  kind  a  listener.  Now  that  she  did 
know,  however,  it  did  not  take  her  long  to  de- 
cide what  to  do.  She  was  not  one  to  lose  an 
opportunity  of  doing  good. 

"  Give  me  your  bundle,  Rosy,"  she  said,  final- 
ly, when  the  story  was  ended.  "  I'll  see  if  I 
can't  deliver  it  for  you,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Clinton's 
saucy  maid ;  and  you  go  home,  dear,  and  make 
yourself  easy.  This  matter  will  be  set  right." 

"  O,  Miss  Miller  !  "  Rosy  could  hardly  speak 
for  her  tears.  "You  are  too  kind.  I've  no 
right  to  give  you  such  trouble." 

"  It  will  not  be  a  trouble,"  said  her  teacher ; 
"  and  if  it  were,  isn't  it  my  duty  to  help  you  bear 
your  burdens,  so  fulfilling'  the  law  of  Christ?" 

So  Rosy  went  on  her  way  comforted,  with  a 
heart  so  full  of  thankful  love  that  there  was  no 
longer  room  for  the  bitter  and  angry  feelings 
which  had  grown  out  of  her  disappointment. 
She  was  not  sorry  to  have  them  crowded  out, 


ROSY    LEE'S    THANKSGIVING.  125 

you  may  be  sure,  for  they  were  neither  welcome 
nor  accustomed  guests  in  her  loving  and  patient 
little  soul.  The  sweetest  natures  in  the  woi'ld, 
however,  have  their  bitter  moments  and  evil  im- 
pulses :  it  would  be  well  if  we  could  all  shake 
them  off  as  easily  as  Rosy  did. 

As  for  Miss  Miller,  she  went  straight  to  Mrs. 
Clinton's  house  as  soon  as  she  had  parted  from 
her  little  pupil.  The  pert  housemaid  did  not 
venture  to  refuse  admittance  to  her,  or  to  take 
her  message  up  to  the  mistress  ;  and  Miss  Miller 
was  soon  in  Mrs.  Clinton's  room,  telling  Rosy's 
little  story.  What  the  result  of  her  interference 
was,  we  shall  find  out  best  by  looking  into 
Mrs.  Lee's  snug  sitting-room  about  dusk  of  the 
same  day. 

The  fire  was  burning  cheerily  in  their  little 
cooking-stove,  and  the  tea-kettle  singing  in  tune. 
Grandmother  was  dozing  in  her  arm-chair,  for- 
getting her  rheumatism  for  the  time  ;  and  Rosy 
stood  by  the  window,  looking  out  into  the  lighted 
street,  where  all  the  shops  were  gay  with  Thanks- 
giving decorations.  All  at  once  there  came  a 
sounding  rap,  that  made  Mrs.  Lee  start  in  her 
sleep,  and  sent  Rosy,  with  a  beating  heart,  to 
open  the  door.  She  had  been  expecting  some' 


126  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

thing  all  the  afternoon ;  but  she  was  hardly 
prepared  for  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Clinton's  magnifi- 
cent coachman,  with  a  letter  in  one  hand,  and  a 
big  basket  in  the  other. 

"Your  name  is  Rosy  Lee?"  he  asked,  con- 
descendingly. "  This  basket  is  for  you,  then." 

And  setting  it  inside  the  door,  he  handed  Rosy 
the  letter,  and  was  gone  before  she  could  find 
voice  enough  to  speak  to  him.  She  lighted  a 
lamp  in  eager  haste,  and  tore  open  the  letter, 
grandmother  looking  on,  with  curious  interest. 
Two  notes  were  enclosed,  and  the  first  one  was 
•from  Miss  Miller  :  — 

"  MY  DEAR  ROSY  :  I  think  you  will  have  a 
happy  Thanksgiving  in  spite  of  your  disappoint- 
ment this  morning.  Mrs.  Clinton's  note  will 
make  amends  for  Nora's  rudeness,  and  I  know 
you  will  enjoy  the  basket  of  good  things  she  has 
sent  for  your  holiday.  You  must  not  think  of 
refusing  the  little  present  which  I  enclose  for 
you.  It  is  sent  with  my  best  love  and  kindest 
wishes,  and  I  am  always  your  affectionate 
teacher, 

MAGDALEN  MILLER." 


ROSY    LEE'S    THANKSGIVING.  I2/ 

The  "  little  present "  was  a  five-dollar  bill  — 
a  small  fortune  to  Rosy.  Mrs.  Clinton's  note 
was  this :  — 

"  DEAR  LITTLE  ROSY  :  Miss  Miller  has  just 
made  me  very  angry,  by  telling  me  how  badly 
Nora  behaved  to  you  this  morning.  I  had  her 
up  stairs,  and  gave  her  such  a  lecture  that  she 
will  know  how  to  behave  herself  in  future,  I 
think. 

"  Your  work  is  beautifully  done,  and  I  shall 
have  more  of  the  same  sort  for  you  to  do.  I 
send  you  six  dollars  to  pay  for  it,  and  a  basket 
of  trifles  for  your  grandmother.  Give  her  my 
regards,  and  tell  her  to  try  my  remedy  for  rheu- 
matism. I  am  quite  sure  it  will  do  her  good.  I 
wish  you  a  happy  Thanksgiving,  and  am  your 
sincere  friend, 

H.  B.  CLINTON." 

Rosy  could  hardly  believe  her  own  eyes,  as 
she  read  these  kind  words  from  the  stately  old 
lady,  who  had  always  seemed  to  her  like  a  dif- 
ferent order  of  being  from  the  common  class  of 
mortals.  "  Dear  little  Rosy  !  "  Her  cheeks  flushed 
with  pride  and  pleasure  as  she  looked  at  the 


128  BIJIDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

words  ;  and  old  Mrs.  Lee  was  equally  delighted, 
though  she  thought  Rosy  was  quite  good  enough 
to  be  called  "  dear  "  by  any  lady  in  the  land. 

The  "  basket  of  trifles  "  was  the  next  thing  to 
be  examined  ;  and  very  nice  trifles  they  proved 
to  be.  A  fine,  fat  turkey  was  one  of  them  ;  two 
large  bottles  of  old  port,  another  ;  and  after  that 
came  a  variety  of  "  trifles"  in  the  shape  of  loaf 
sugar,  raisins,  walnuts,  Spitzenburg  apples,  and 
a  mince  pie,  under  whose  flaky  crust  many  a 
nice  plum  was  hidden.  Mrs.  Clinton  had  packed 
the  basket  with  her  own  hands,  and  it  was  the 
very  pleasantest  part  of  all  her  fine  Thanksgiving 
preparations.  She  quite  forgot  that  she  had  a 
headache,  or  was  going  to  have  a  dinner  party 
to-morrow,  in  her  anticipation  of  little  Rosy's 
delight. 

As  for  that,  you  will  have  to  imagine  it ;  for  I 
never  could  describe  all  the  half-laughing,  half- 
tearful,  altogether  happy  things  she  said  and  did  ; 
nor  what  a  fuss  and  preparation  was  made  over 
the  dinner  next  day,  when  two  of  Mrs.  Lee's  old 
friends  were  invited  to  it,  and  one  of  Rosy's 
class  mates  in  Sunday  school  —  an  orphan  girl, 
who  had  but  scanty  Thanksgiving  at  her  own 
home,  and  so  enjoyed  Rosy's  all  the  more. 


ROSY  LEE'S  THANKSGIVING.     Page  126. 


ROSY   LEE'S   THANKSGIVING.  129 

One  thing,  however,  I  must  tell  you :  that 
Mrs.  Clinton's  receipt  really  proved  a  great  re- 
lief, and  before  the  two  bottles  of  wine  were  used 
up,  grandmother's  rheumatism  was  so  much 
better  that  she  could  do  her  share  of  work 
again ;  and  they  got  on  very  comfortably  all 
through  the  winter.  And  another  thing  I  must 
tell  you :  that  Rosy  learned  a  lesson  of  trust  in 
God's  loving  care  and  kindness  from  that  Thanks- 
giving Day,  which  made  her  better  and  happier 
all  the  rest  of  her  life. 


BLANCHE'S  LESSON. 

A  LITTLE  girl  and  a  lady  sat  together  in  a 
-Z~~\.  pretty  room  one  pleasant  summer  morning. 
It  was  called  "  the  school-room,"  and  there  was, 
to  be  sure,  a  desk  in  it,  covered  with  green  cloth, 
and  strewn  about  with  papers  and  pens ;  also  a 
table,  upon  which  lay  two  or  three  lesson-books 
—  an  arithmetic,  a  "  speller  and  definer,"  and  a 
little  volume  of  French  phrases. 

But  the  room,  for  all  this,  was  very  different 
from  most  school-rooms.  It  had  a  cool,  straw 
matting  on  the  floor ;  delicate  white  curtains 
inside  the  windows,  and  honeysuckle  vines  out- 
side ;  easy  chairs  and  sofas  all  around ;  pictures 
on  the  walls,  and  flowers  on  the  mantel.  The 
teacher,  too,  was  no  stern  old  pedagogue,  or 
sharp-faced  schoolmistress,  such  as  one  sees  often 
enough.  She  was  just  as  pretty  as  the  room, 
with  a  bright  face  and  a  sweet  voice  that  were 
enough  in  themselves  to  make  fractions  and 

French  verbs  easy. 

(130) 


BLANCHE'S  LESSON.  131 

After  all  this,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  of  course, 
that  the  little  girl  was  a  great  deal  happier  than 
ordinary  school-girls ;  that  she  was  learning  her 
lessons  with  the  greatest  diligence  and  delight ; 
and  that  her  governess  had  never  to  speak  a  word 
of  reproof  to  her !  On  the  contrary,  there  was 
quite  a  different  state  of  things  in  the  pretty 
school-room  that  sunny  summer  morning. 

"  Blanche,"  said  Miss  Loxley,  in  a  very  de- 
cided tone,  "  I  am  waiting  to  hear  your  lesson 
in  definitions." 

"  I  don't  know  my  lesson  in  definitions,"  very 
sullenly  from  Blanche. 

"  You  never  will,  if  you  sit  all  the  morning 
pinching  the  leaves  of  your  book,  and  tearing 
bits  of  paper  off  the  edges,  and  never  once 
looking  at  your  lesson.  How  do  you  expect 
to  learn  it?" 
.  "  I  don't  want  to  learn  it,"  pouted  Blanche. 

"  So  I  see,"  returned  Miss  Loxley,  calmly. 
"We  are  often  obliged,  however,  to  do  things 
that  we  don't  want  to  do ;  and  this  lesson  of 
yours,  my  dear,  is  a  case  in  point.  You  will 
please  to  bring  your  book,  and  sit  beside  me, 
and  study  aloud  until  you  can  recite  all  those 
definitions  correctly.  I  do  not  intend  to  excuse 
you  again." 


1^2  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

She  pointed  with  an  air  of  authority  to  a  little 
chair  beside  her,  and  looked  at  Blanche  with  a 
steady,  quiet  glance  that  showed  she  meant  to  be 
obeyed.  But  Blanche  was  a  wilful  little  girl, 
who  had  been  allowed  to  have  her  own  way 
the  greater  part  of  her  life  ;  and  she  had  no  idea 
of  submitting  to  this  new  governess,  who  ordered 
her  to  do  this  thing  and  that,  as  no  other  gov- 
erness had  ever  ventured  to  do  before.  No,  in- 
deed !  So,  instead  of  obeying,  she  kept  her  seat 
resolutely,  and  neither  spoke  nor  stirred,  but  set 
her  lips  together  with  a  defiant  expression  that 
Miss  Loxley  understood  at  once  to  mean  a  dec- 
laration of  rebellion. 

She  was  not  alarmed  by  it,  although  she  fore- 
saw the  struggle  that  must  ensue.  Her  spirit 
was  quite  as  determined  as  her  little  pupil's,  and 
she  knew  that  if  she  did  not  enforce  her  author- 
ity now  she  would  never  be  able  to  do  it  after- 
wards. So  she  said,  in  the  same,  quiet  tone,  — 

"  I  think  you  heard  me  give  you  an  order, 
Blanche.  Now  I  repeat  it.  Come  and  sit  down 
in  this  chair !  " 

No  answer  from  Blanche.  Only  the  lips  more 
tightly  compressed,  and  the  feet  firmly  planted 
upon  the  floor,  as  she  obstinately  kept  her  seat 


BLANCHE'S  LESSON.  133 

"You  wish  me  to  compel  you,  perhaps?" 
asked  Miss  Loxley,  calmly. 

"  You  can't  !  "  answered  the  child,  defiantly. 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  with  a  little  flash 
in  the  bright  blue  eye.  "  I  wouldn't  advise  you 
to  put  it  to  the  proof.  Once  more  —  for  the  last 
time  —  I  command  you  to  come  and  take  your 
seat  in  this  chair  !  " 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  it,  and  her  eyes  met 
Blanche's  with  such  a  "  dangerous"  look  in  them 
that  the  little  stubborn  spirit  quailed  at  last.  She 
rose  with  a  jerk,  marched  across  the  room,  and 
flung  herself  into  the  seat  pointed  out.  But  the 
book  she  kept  shut  in  her  hands,  and  would 
neither  open  it,  nor  study  aloud  a  single  word 
of  the  lesson.  She  was  not  afraid  of  punish- 
ment, for  she  had  never  been  punished  in  her 
life ;  and  although  she  had  changed  her  seat 
because  she  knew  Miss  Loxley  was  stronger 
than  she,  and  could  compel  her  to  do  so,  she 
also  knew  that  Miss  Loxley  could  not  compel 
her  to  speak  aloud  if  she  did  not  choose  to ;  and 
therefore  she  obstinately  chose  not  to. 

It  was  a  difficult  and  disagreeable  case  to  man- 
age, but  the  governess  was  not  daunted.  She 
did  not  waste  words  in  trying  to  make  her  pupil 
speak;  she  only  said, — 


134  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

"  You  can  sit  idle  as  long  as  you  please, 
Blanche ;  I  shall  not  interfere  with  you.  But 
remember  that  I  do  not  allow  you  to  leave  this 
room  until  you  have  learned  your  lesson,  and 
recited  it  properly." 

Then  she  turned  away  to  the  green-covered 
desk,  and  began  to  write.  Blanche  sat  in  sullen 
anger,  and  watched  her,  with  her  heart  full  of 
indignant  rebellion  "  against  an  authority  more 
stringent  than  any  she  had  ever  felt  before. 

"What  right  has  she  to  treat  me  so?  Nobody 
else  ever  made  me  learn  lessons  when  I  didn't 
want  to,  and  I  won't  learn  it  now  !  I  won't  stay 
in  this  room  all  day,  either,  and  I'll  tell  my 
grandma  just  as  soon  as  ever  she  comes  home. 
So  I  will!" 

And  poor  little  naughty  Blanche  shed  tears 
of  impotent  rage  as  the  passionate  thoughts 
surged  up  in  her  mind.  "  She  would  not  give 
up  —  no,  that  she  never  would  I "  she  said  to 
herself  over  and  over  again.  But  she  felt  through 
it  all  that  there  was  very  little  use  in  her 
resistance  ;  for  her  grandmother,  who  had  hu- 
mored and  petted -her  far  too  much  for  her  own 
good,  was  away  on  a  journey,  and  Miss  Loxley 
was  mistress  of  the  hous'e  during  her  absence 


BLANCHE'S  LESSON  135 

Not  a  soul  was  there  to  interfere  in  her  behalf; 
and  she  was  entirely  in  her  teacher's  power.  So 
it  was  a  very  vain  and  foolish  resistance,  and  she 
knew  it.  Yet  she  persevered  in  it,  although  it 
was  weary  work,  sitting  idle  and  miserable  in 
the  little  chair,  while  Miss  Loxley's  busy  pen 
travelled  over  the  paper,  and  her  quick  eye  pre- 
vented the  little  rebel  from  moving  a  step  away. 

It  would  have  been  easier  to  study  the  lesson 
than  to  sit  in  this  dreary  silence  and  idleness ; 
but  she  was  too  proud  to  own  that,  even  to  her- 
self; too  wilfully  stubborn  to  do  the  only  thing 
that  could  bring  her  any  relief. 

So  the  hours  dragged  by  till  the  sun  was  high 
up  in  the  deep-blue  sky,  and  the  pretty  clock  on 
the  mantel-shelf  chimed  out  twelve  silvery  notes 
for  noon.  This  was  the  usual  signal  for  her 
release.  There  were  no  more  lessons  after 
twelve,  and  she  was  free  to  amuse  herself,  as  she 
liked  on  ordinary  days.  But  to-day  the  case 
was  different.  Warm,  and  tired,  and  wretched 
as  she  felt,  she  was  stiil  determined  not  to  yield. 
Miss  Loxley  understood  it  at  a  glance,  when  she 
folded  her  letters,  and  rose  from  the  desk. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.  "  You  choose  to 
spend  the  day. in  the  school-room,  I  see.  But, 


136  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

for  my  part,  I  am  tired  of  looking  at  such  a  silly 
and  naughty  little  girl.  So  I  shall  leave  you  to 
enjoy  your  own  company  all  alone.  I  will  send 
your  luncheon  to  you  here  ;  and  when  you  have 
made  up  your  mind  to  learn  your  lesson,  you  can 
ring  the  bell,  and  I  will  come  and  hear  you 
say  it." 

With  this  she  walked  out  of  the  room,  and, 
lest  Blanche  in  her  absence  should  choose  to 
follow  her  example,  she  coolly  locked  the  door 
on  the  outside. 

The  sound  of  the  key  in  the  lock,  that  told  the 
little  girl  she  was  a  prisoner  indeed,  changed 
Blanche's  sullen  anger  into  a  frenzy  of  rage. 
She  stamped  her  feet,  she  tossed  the  books  to 
and  fro,  she  kicked  the  chairs  about,  she  cried 
and  screamed.  It  was  all  to  no  purpose,  for 
nobody  came  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  The 
servants  were  accustomed  to  her  tantrums,  and 
not  sorry  to  see  that  the  new  governess  meant  to 
have  the  upper  hand  of  her. 

"  Time  somebody  made  her  mind,"  said  the 
housekeeper,  "  Salt  won't  save  her  if  she's  let 
alone  much  longer." 

So  she  only  smiled  grimly  as  she  heard  the  pas- 
sionate shrieks  and  stamps  that  came  from  the 


BLANCHE'S  LESSON.  137 

school-room,  and  went  to  prepare  the  luncheon 
that  Miss  Loxley  had  ordered  to  be  sent  up. 

"  Don't  allow  her  to  come  out,  if  you  please, 
Mrs.  Quince,"  Miss  Loxley  had  said.  "  I  have 
told  her  to  stay  until  she  learns  her  lesson,  and  I 
intend  to  make  her  do  it." 

"And  I'm  very  glad  you  do,"  Mrs.  Quince 
responded,  heartily.  "  She'll  not  get  out  by  me, 
I  promise  you." 

So  she  carried  up  the  luncheon-tray  herself. 
Blanche  flew  to  the  door  as  soon  as  it  was 
opened,  and  tried  to  rush  past  the  housekeeper. 
But  Mrs.  Quince  was  too  quick  and  too  strong 
for  her. 

"No,  indeed,  miss.  You'll  get  out  fast 
enough  if  you  try  the  right  way.  But  you 
don't  run  over  me  —  not  yet." 

She  set  down  the  tray,  went  out,  and  locked 
the  door  again,  quite  indifferent  to  the  torrent 
of  angry  words  that  Blanche  poured  out  in  her 
disappointment.  She  had  counted  upon  making 
her  escape  in  this  way,  and  she  was  more  furious 
than  ever  at  being  balked.  For  it  was  her  only 
chance  :  the  window  was  far  too  high  for  her  to 
climb  out  into  the  garden,  and  there  was  not 
even  a  door  into  another  room.  There  was 


138  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

nothing  to  do  but  kick  and  scream,  and  call  her 
teacher  all  the  ugly  names  she  could  think  of; 
and  this  Blanche  did  till  she  was  tired  out,  and 
then  she  lay  on  the  floor  and  sobbed,  in  perfect 
misery  and  exhaustion.  Poor  little  soul !  the 
one  way  of  escape  that  was  so  easy  and  simple 
she  obstinately  'would  not  make  use  of. 

A  sweet  little  voice  came  to  her  ear  by  and 
by,  as  she  lay  in  a  careless  heap  close  by  the 
door. 

"  Blanchie  ! "  it  said,  "  are  you  there,  Blan- 
chie?" 

And  she  knew  that  it  was  her  little  sister 
Alice  who  was  calling  her.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet  with  a  sudden  hope.  i 

"  Alice  will  open  the  door  for  me  ;  she  doesn't 
know,"  she  thought ;  and  she  answered  hastily  in 
a  loud,  eager  whisper, — 

"  Yes,  Alice,  I'm  here.  Open  the  door  for 
me,  and  I'll  come  out  and  play  with  you." 

"  I  can't  open  the  door ! "  cried  the  child. 
"  I'm  too  little  to  reach  up !  Why  don't  you 
open  it  yourself,  Blanchie?" 

"  Because  I  can't,"  whispered  Blanche,  in  an- 
swer. "  It's  locked  outside." 

"O!    who  locked  you  in?"    exclaimed    little 


BLANCHES    LESSON.  139 

Alice,  in  a  lone  of  dismay.  "  Was  it  Miss 
Loxley  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Blanche,  hastily,  "  that's 
no  matter.  I  want  you  to  unlock  it,  Ally,  and 
if  you'll  listen  a  minute,  I'll  tell  you  how.  Just 
run  into  grandma's  room,  and  get  one  of  her 
hassocks  —  they're  not  heavy  to  lift  —  and  bring 
it  here  to  stand  on.  Then  you  can  turn  the  key 
in  the  lock  —  it  turns  ever  so  easy  —  and  I  can 
get  out.  Run  along,  Ally,  quick,  that's  a  good 
girl !  I'll  take  you  out  in  the  woods,  and  find 
huckleberries  for  you,  and  all  sorts  of  things,  if 
you'll  make  haste,  and  not  let  anybody  see  you." 

"  Will  you  ? "  little  Alice  answered,  innocent- 
ly. "  Well,  I'll  make  haste.  I'll  be  back  in  a 
minute." 

And  she  tripped  away,  pleased  to  be  made 
useful,  and  quite  unconscious  that  she  was  doing 
anything  wrong.  She  was  a  mere  baby,  only 
four  years  old,  and,  of  course,  could  know  no 
better.  Blanche  knew  very  well  that  she  was 
making  her  little  sister  do  wrong,  but  she  cared 
nothing  for  that  so  long  as  she  accomplished  her 
purpose. 

In  a  minute  or  two  the  child  came  back,  tug- 
ging the  hassock  through  the  hall ;  and  climbing 


140  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

upon  it,  she  was  able,  after  a  little  fumbling  and 
working  with  the  key,  to  get  it  turned  in  the 
lock.  Another  moment  and  the  door  stood  open, 
and  Blanche  was  no  longer  a  prisoner. 

It  had  all  been  done  quietly  and  quickly,  and 
nobody  had  seen  or  heard  them.  Blanche  car- 
ried the  hassock  back  to  her  grandmother's  room, 
and  locked  the  door  of  the  school-room  as  it  had 
been  before.  Then  the  two  children  stole  softly 
down  stairs,  past  the  door  of  the  parlor  where 
Miss  Loxley  sat,  all  unconscious  of  what  was 
going  on,  and  out  upon  the  piazza.,  where  they 
found  their  round  hats  lying  upon  a  bench. 

"Blanche  put  on  her  own,  and  tied  Alice's 
under  her  chin,  the  little  thing  standing  still  and 
silent,  and  not  even  venturing  to  whisper,  be- 
cause she  was  told  not  to.  Nobody  was  in  sight 
at  any  door  or  window,  and  the  runaway,  hold- 
ing her  sister's  little  hand  tightly  in  her  own, 
darted  across  the  lawn,  and  made  her  way  safely 
down  to  the  barn-yard.  A  lane  led  from  that  to 
the  woods,  which  were  very  near  the  house,  and 
once  in  that  lane  Blanche  knew  she  was  safe 
from  discovery.  The  thick  foliage  of  the  wil- 
lows hid  her  from  view,  and  the  ducks  and 
chickens  in  the  barn-yard  would  tell  no  talcs 
of  her. 


BLANCHE  S    LESSON.  14! 

So,  at  last,  they  were  fairly  in  the  woods, 
roaming  at  large  under  the  shady  old  pine  trees, 
and  far  enough  out  of  the  reach  of  Miss  Loxley 
and  her  tiresome  lessons.  Blanche  laughed,  and 
shouted,  and  tossed  her  hat  in  the  air  in  the  tri- 
umph of  her  freedom.  She  snatched  little  Alice 
up,  and  swung  her  round  and  round,  until  they 
were  both  so  dizzy  that  they  dropped  down  in  a 
heap  upon  the  dry  leaves.  Then  she  kissed  the 
child  a  dozen  times,  and  declared  that  she  was 
the  dearest  little  darling  in  the  world,  and  she 
loved  her,  .O,  more  than  tongue  could  tell !  But 
as  for  that  ugly,  old,  cross,  horrid  Miss  Loxley, 
why,  she  was  just  hateful,  and  Blanche  never 
meant  to  like  her  any  more,  and  neither  must 
Alice  ;  they  must  coax  grandmamma  to  send  her 
away  soon  as  ever  she  came  home. 

"  But  I  don't  want  her  to  be  sent  away,"  said 
little  Alice,  innocently.  "  She  holds  me  on  her 
lap,  and  tells  me  about  Chin-Chopper  and  Polly 
Flinders.  She  isn't  ugly,  either.  She  has  pret- 
ty blue  eyes  and  curly  hair,  and  I  don't  think 
she's  horrid  at  all." 

"  But  you  must  think  so  when  I  tell  you,"  said 
Blanche.  "Don't  you  know  I'm  the  oldest? 
She's  horrid  and  ugly,  because  she's  so  cross  to 


142  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

me  ;  and  you  mustn't  like  people  that  treat  sistei 
badly,  Alice." 

"What  did  she  do?"  asked  Alice,  doubting 
still. 

"  Do?  Why,  she  locked  me  up  in  that  nasty 
school-room,  and  was*  going  to  keep  me  there  all 
day,  and  all  night,  and  all  the  time,  just  for 
nothing!  And  only  think,  all  she  sent  me  for 
my  lunch  was  bread  and  milk !  Not  a  bit  of 
cake,  or  raspberries,  or  honey,  or  anything !  I 
wonder  what  grandma  will  say  when  I  tell  her 
that?" 

Alice  looked  rather  dismayed  at  this  catalogue 
of  Miss  Loxley's  offences,  but  she  ventured 
another  question  :  — 

"  Weren't  you  naughty  at  alt?  " 

"  No,  I  wasn't.  But  you  are  naughty  to  ask 
such  questions ;  and  I  won't  love  you  if  you're 
not  angry  with  her  for  treating  me  so  badly." 

"  Well,  I'll  be  angry,"  Alice  said,  hastily,  get- 
ting frightened  at  her  sister's  scolding.  "  I  won't 
love  her  any  more.  But  you  promised  to  find 
me  some  huckleberries." 

"Jump  up,  then,  and  we'll  go  hunt  for  them," 
said  Blanche.  And  she  scrambled  with  the 
child  down  among  the  wild  bushes  and  under- 


BLANCHE'S  LESSON.  143 

growth  in  search  of  berries.  But  there  were 
none  to  be  found  that  were  fit  to  eat.  Plenty  of 
green  ones  on  the  bushes,  but  all  that  were  black 
and  ripe  had  been  picked  off.  Alice  looked 
rather  downcast  at  the  disappointment,  but 
Blanche  said, — 

"  Never  mind,  I'll  give  you  a  swing  in  the 
grape-vines.  I  know  how  to  make  a  beautiful 
swing." 

There  were  wild  grape-vines  in  great  abun- 
dance in  these  woods.  Their  stout  tendrils  swung 
from  one  tree-trunk  to  another,  and  clambered 
up  into  the  branches,  covering  the  sober  leafage 
of  the  pines  with  a  beautiful  new  growth.  In 
the  autumn,  clusters  of  grapes  hung  thick  among 
them ;  and  Blanche  had  climbed  after  these, 
getting  many  a  slip  and  tumble,  and  many  an 
ugly  rent  in  her  frocks,  until  she  knew  the  grape- 
vines all  by  heart. 

But  she  was  strong  and  fearless ;  she  had 
played  in  the  woods  ever  since  she  could  re- 
member, and  did  not  mind  the  falls  and  scram- 
bles. If  she  climbed  into  the  vines,  and  fell 
backwards,  she  could  pick  herself  up  none  the 
worse.  If  she  made  "  a  beautiful  swing,"  as 
she  called  it,  and  it  broke  down,  carrying  her 


144  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

with  it,  —  as  was  generally  the  case,  —  she  man- 
aged to  scramble  out  again,  not  much  hurt.  She 
did  not  doubt  but  little  Alice  could  do  the  same  ; 
and  so  she  proceeded  to  make  her  swing. 

She  had  found  what  she  considered  a  good 
vine  for  the  purpose,  and  drawn  down  a  long, 
straggling  tendril  from  the  network  of  stems 
interlaced  overhead.  It  was  in  just  the  right 
curve  for  a  swing,  and  the  ends  seemed  to  be 
securely  fastened  up  in  the  tree.  So  she  lifted 
Alice  into  the  loop,  —  it  was  far  above  the  ground, 
—  and,  bidding  her  "hold  on  tight,"  she  gave 
her  a  push  that  sent  her  swinging  out  beyond  the 
tree. 

The  child  swung  backwards,  breathless  with 
delight,  and  Blanche  gave  her  another  push,  and 
another,  throwing  her  farther  and  farther  out 
into  the  air.  Something  snapped  and  cracked 
overhead,  presently.  Blanche  shouted,  — 

"  Hold  on,  Alice !  " 

And  sprang  towards  the  swing  to  stop  it. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  sudden  outcry  that  frightened 
the  child ;  perhaps  she  had  grown  giddy  with 
the  unaccustomed  motion ;  there  was  no  telling 
exactly  how  it  happened  ;  but  the  slender  little 
fingers  grew  suddenly  powerless,  the  rough  vine 


BLANCHE'S  LESSON.  145 

slipped  away  from  their  grasp,  and  her  head  be- 
gan to  swim  with  a  dizzy  sickness.  She  threw 
her  arms  out  wildly,  and  fell,  face  downward,  in 
a  helpless  heap,  to  the  ground. 

Blanche  fled  to  her  with  a  scream  of  affright. 
It  was  a  worse  fall  than  ever  she  had  had,  and 
her  sudden  terror  was  redoubled  when  she  dis- 
covered the  condition  that  Alice  was  in.  She 
lay  just  as  she  had  fallen,  and  made  no  sound. 
Her  little  face  was  white  as  death,  and  drops  of 
blood  were  oozing  from  her  lips.  In  vain  her 
terrified  sister  lifted  her  up,  and  called  her  by 
name,  begging  her  wildly,  with  tears  and  kisses, 
only  to  speak  to  her  once* — just  once!  The 
drooping  eyelids  were  not  lifted  ;  the  little  blood- 
stained mouth  gave  no  sign  of  life ;  and  Blanche, 
in  that  dreadful  hour,  realized  her  fault  and  its 
punishment  with  a  suffering  too  sharp  and  bitter 
for  words  to  reveal. 

"  I  have  killed  her !  I  have  killed  my  little 
sister —  my  dear,  little,  darling,  beautiful  sister  !  " 
she  screamed  aloud  in  her  wild  despair.  And 
her  voice  rang  through  the  woods  with  such  bit- 
ter cries  that  it  reached  the  ears  of  more  than 
one  person,  and  a  group  of  people,  some  stran- 
10 


146  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

gers,  some  servants  of  the  house,  were  soon  hur- 
rying to  the  spot. 

Miss  Loxley  was  among  them,  for  she  had 
discovered  Blanche's  escape,  and  missed  little 
Alice,  and  was  on  her  way  to  the  wood  to  seek 
for  them,  when  she  heard  those  piercing  shrieks, 
and  recognized  the  voice  that  uttered  them.  She 
was  the  first  to  reach  the  place,  and  Blanche's 
punishment  was  complete  when  she  met  the 
governess's  look  of  stern  a^nd  sad  reproach,  as 
she  raised  up  the  poor  little  broken  flower  from 
the  ground. 

It  was  a  mournful  procession  that  marched 
from  the  woods,  down  the  pleasant,  green  lane, 
through  the  barn-yard,  where  the  ducks  and 
geese  cackled  unconsciously  as  ever,  across  the 
shady  lawn,  and  into  the  house,  out  of  which 
those  little  feet,  so  motionless  now,  had  gone 
merrily,  an  hour  before.  Servants  and  neighbors 
gathered  weeping  about  her,  for  little  Alice  was 
the  pet  and  darling  of  the  household  ;  and  now, 
when  it  seemed  as  if  she  might  never  brighten 
the  place  again  with  her  beauty  and  sweetness, 
there  were  many  to  tell  how  they  would  miss 
and  mourn  her. 


BLANCHE  S    LESSON.  147 

But  I  need  not  make  the  story  sadder  than  it 
really  was.  And  the  little  life  was  given  back 
after  all.  There  were  many  days  when  her  feet 
seemed  close  to  the  brink  of  the  dark  river — ; 
when  a  look,  a  breath  almost,  seemed  enough  to 
send  the  little  fluttering  spirit  up  to  heaven. 

Some  thought  it  would  have  been  better  for  her 
to  have  died  then,  than  to  go  limping  upon 
crutches  always  afterwards,  lame  for  life  !  But 
God  kn»w  best.  And  Blanche  —  poor,  penitent, 
heart-broken  child  !  —  never  ceased  to  thank  him 
for  the  life  that  he  saved,  "  maimed  and  halt  "as 
it  was. 

It  was  a  hard  "  lesson  "  that  she  learned  that 
day  :  spelling-book  or  grammar  never  held  one 
half  so  hard !  But  the  knowledge  that  came 
with  such  suffering  was  precious  knowledge  all 
the  yeai-s  of  her  life.  Miss  Loxley  used  to  tell 
afterwards  how  the  whole  nature  of  the  child 
had  changed  ;  how  gentle,  and  patient,  and  sub- 
missive she  had  grown  ;  how  good  and  thought- 
ful, forever  seeking  to  do  a  service  for  some  one, 
and  living  "  close  to  God  "  in  her  constant  watch- 
fulness and  prayers. 

As  for  little  Alice — she  used  to   say  that  it 


148  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

was  worth  while  to  be  lame  when  one  had  such 
a  sister  as  Blanche  —  a  sister  who  was  more  like 
a  mother  in  her  boundless  love  and  tenderness. 
So  out  of  the  root  of  evil  God  chose  to  let  a  good 
fruit  grow.  But  it  is  better  to  plant  in  the  be- 
ginning the  "  precious  seed,"  which,  of  its  own 
impulse,  blossoms  into  "  sheaves  of  rejoicing." 


JESSIE'S  JOURNEY. 

"  T     ET  me  alone  !  let  me  alone  !  "  screamed 

J — y  Jessie  Joralemono  "  If  you  don't  let'  me 
go,  Horace,  I'll  bite,  you  now  —  so  I  will !  " 

"  As  to  that,  Jet,  I  can  bite,  too,  you  know," 
said  her  big  brother  Horace.  And,  instead  of 
letting  her  go,  he  tightened  his  grasp  upon  her 
bare,  sunburnt  shoulders. 

"You're  a  nice  little  girl  now — aren't  you? 
Down  here  in  the  village,  hale  fellow  well  met 
with  every  little  dirty  brat  you  can  find  to  play 
with  you  ;  your  neck  and  arms  uncovered,  too, 
and  your  face  just  about  the  col<5r  of  theirs. 
Well,  you  are  a  nice  little  sister  —  a  fellow  ought 
to  be  proud  of  you  !  " 

"  It's  none  of  a  fellow's  business ! "  sobbed 
Jessie,  angrily.  "  And  I  don't  care  whether  you 
are  proud  or  not !  You  let  me  alone  !  " 

"  O,  of  course,  it's  none  of  my  business ! "  re- 
torted Horace.  "  We'll  go  home,  though,  and 
see  whose  business  it  is.  Just  march  along,  Miss 

(H9) 


150  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

Jet,  until  we  hear  what  mother  has  to  say  to 
you  ;  and  no  biting  now  —  remember  !  " 

It  was  in  vain  for  Jessie  to  resist :  her  brother 
held  her  with  a  grasp  that  she  could  not  shake 
off,  and  she  was  forced  to  walk  beside  him,  and 
listen  to  his  sarcastic  speeches  until  they  reached 
their  home,  when  Mrs.  Joralemon,  standing  on 
the  piazza,  was  the  first  to  meet  them. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Jessie?  Horace, 
what  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  immediately, 
seeing  from  the  little  girl's  flushed  and  tear- 
stained  face  that  something  had  happened. 

"  Down  in  the  village  again,"  said  Horace, 
"  making  mud  pies  with  half  a  dozen  Irish 
youngsters  round  her.  Nice  little  girl  —  ain't 
she?  But  she  says  it's  none  of  my  business, 
so  I  brought  her  home  to  see  if  it  was  any  of 
yours.  There  —  you  can  go  now." 

And  Horace  gave  her  a  little  push  towards 
her  mother,  and  walked  off  whistling,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  What  a  naughty  child  you  are,  Jessie  !  "  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Joralemon,  severely.  "  Down  in 
the  village  again,  after  you  have  so  often  been 
forbidden,  so  often  punished  for  going !  Go  up 
stairs  to  my  room  immediately ;  and,  when  your 


JESSIE'S  JOURNEY.  151 

father  corner  home,  we  shall  see  what  he  has  to 
say  to  you." 

Forlornly  enough  Jessie  trudged  up  stairs,  and 
seated  herself  in  her  mother's  room,  in  the  cor- 
ner farthest  out  of  sight.  Her  frock  was  torn 
and  draggled,  her  face  was  stained  with  tears 
and  perspiration  and  dirt,  her  finger-nails  had 
the  blackest  of  rims.  Altogether  she  was  a 
dismal  little  object  to  look  upon,  and  one  can 
hardly  blame  Horace  for  being  disgusted  with 
her,  for  it  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  been 
caught  in  this  plight. 

The  village  was  her  great  temptation,  though 
what  made  it  so  was  not  easy  to  understand.  It 
was  as  ugly  a  little  village  as  ever  was  seen, 
consisting  of  one  long,  straggling  street  of 
shabby  houses  and  insignificant  little  shops, 
with  a  sort  of  common,  or  green,  at  one  end, 
sloping  down  to  a  sluggish  pond.  Here  ducks 
and  geese  and  dirty  children  paddled  and  played 
at  all  hours  of  the  day ;  and  here  Jessie  had 
been  found  more  than  once  before,  and  more 
than  once  before  brought  home  in  disgrace. 
There  might  have  been  some  excuse  for  her  if 
she  had  had  no  playmates  at  home  ;  but  when  she 
had  brothers  and  sisters  in  plenty,  books  and 


152  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

playthings  more  than  she  knew  what  to  do  with, 
and  two  or  three  acres  of  lawn  and  garden  and 
meadow,  over  which  she  was  free  to  roam,  it 
was  certainly  very  silly,  as  well  as  very  naughty, 
to  behave  as  she  did. 

Jessie  didn't  see  it,  however,  and,  instead  of 
feeling  penitent  and  ashamed,  as  she  sat  alone  in 
her  corner,  she  only  felt  angry  and  insulted. 

"  I  just  don't  care  !  "  she  said,  wilfully.  "  I'll 
go  again  whenever  I  get  a  chance;  and  Horace 
is  a  disagreeable,  ugly  boy  —  that's  what  he  is ; 
and  I've  a  great  mind  not  to  stay  here  any 
longer,  but  just  go  to  New  York  and  live  with 
my  grandfather !  There,  now  !  '* 

This  was  a  threat  that  she  frequently  made 
when  anything  happened  to  vex  her.  Her 
grandfather  —  old  Mr.  Joshua  Joralemon  —  was 
very  fond  of  her ;  she  was  his  favorite  of  all  the 
children,  in  fact,  and  they  knew  it  so  well  that 
they  made  a  rhyme  about  it  to  tease  her :  — 

"  Here  comes  Jet, 
Grandpa's  pet." 

Why  he  called  her  "Jet,"  instead  of  Jessie, 
nobody  could  tell,  for  she  had  red  hair,  and  blue 
eyes,  and  there  was  nothing  jetty  whatever  about 


JESSIE'S  JOURNEY.  153 

her.  However,  that  was  his  name  for  her  ;  and 
one  day,  .when  he  was  at  Windy-Knowe  on  a 
visit,  Miss  Jet  got  into  trouble,  which  was  noth- 
ing remarkable  for  her  either. 

It  wasn't  her  stumbling-block  —  the  village; 
nor  yet  the  meadow-brook,  which  was  another 
of  her  pitfalls.  It  wasn't  even  green  apples,  nor 
the  duck's  eggs,  but  only  the  hay-stack,  through 
which  she  came  to  grief.  She  had  found  a  ladder 
leaning  against  it,  and  she  had  climbed  up  to  the 
very  top,  and  perched  herself  there  with  great  sat- 
isfaction ;  but  Broderick,  coming  along  on  the 
other  side,  and  never  seeing  her,  had  marched 
off  with  the  ladder.  So,  when  Miss  Jessie  got 
ready  to  descend  from  her  airy  heights,  she  had 
no  steps  to  help  her,  and  she  dared  not  slide 
down  the  steep  and  slippery  sides.  Of  course 
she  set  up  a  scream  immediately, — Jet  always 
screamed ;  and  that  brought  Joe,  and  Pussy, 
and  Clem,  all  helter-skelter,  to  see  what  was  the 
matter,  and  to  shout  with  laughter  when  they 
discovered  her  ridiculous  situation. 

They  got  the  ladder,  and  helped  her  down, 
but  they  laughed  at  her,  and  teased  her  all  the 
time,  until  poor  Jet  was  in  a  towering  rage  ;  in 
the  midst  of  which  grandpa  came  along,  and 
took  her  part,  saying,  soothingly,— 


154  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

l\  Don't  you  mind  them,  Jet ;  if  they  abuse  you 
here,  just  run  away,  and  come  and  live  with  me. 
I'll  take  care  of  you." 

Of  course  he  was  only  jesting  with  her ;  but 
Jessie  took  it  quite  in  earnest,  and  from  that 
time,  whenever  she  was  angry,  she  avowed  her 
determination  to  run  away  and  live  with  her 
grandfather.  Nobody  heeded  her,  for  nobody 
dreamed  that  she  would  ever  undertake  to  do 
it,  seeing  that  Windy-Knowe  was  at  least  thirty 
miles  away  from  New  York.  But  the  idea  had 
taken  more  serious  hold  of  the  child's  fancy  than 
any  one  imagined ;  and,  as  she  sat  alone  this 
afternoon,  brooding  over  her  sense  of  wrong  and 
ill-treatment,  it  came  to  her  more  and  more  seri- 
ously, until  at  last  she  jumped  up  with  a  resolute 
look  upon  her  face,  and  exclaimed,  half  aloud,  — 

"  I'll  just  go,  so  I  will !  I'll  not  stay  shut  up 
here  all  the  day,  and  I  won't  be  punished  when 
my  father  comes  home  —  all  for  nothing !  I've 
got  some  money  of  my  own,  and  I'll  go  to  New 
York  in  the  cars  this  very  day  —  I  will !  " 

No  one  was  by  to  hear  or  see  her,  and  so  no 
one  could  stop  the  wild  plan  which  she  immedi- 
ately set  to  work  to  carry  out.  The  first  thing 
was  to  wash  her  face  and  hands,  and  put  on  a 


JESSIE  S  JOURNEY.  155 

tidy  dress  ;  and,  as  a  pile  of  her  own  clean  frocks 
had  just  been  brought  in  from  the  laundry,  and 
lay  on  her  mother's  bed  waiting  to  be  put  away, 
she  had  no  trouble  in  making  the  change  with- 
out notice.  This  done,  she  stole  softly  out  of  the 
room,  and  crossed  the  hall,  to  the  little  chamber 
where  she  slept  with  Pussy. 

The  door  was  open,  and  no  one  in  sight.  She 
got  her  best  hat  and  mantle  out  of  the  closet, 
and  dressed  herself  quickly  in  them  ;  and  then, 
from  a  little  box  in  which  she  kept  her  particular 
treasures,  she  took  a  tiny  little  gilt  porte-monnaie. 
In  this  there  were  four  new  three-cent  pieces, 
two  half  dimes,  and  a  little  gold  dollar,  all  of 
which  had  been  given  her  by  her  grandfather  at 
different  times.  She  did  not  know  how  much  a 
ticket  to  New  York  would  cost,  but  the  gold 
dollar  seemed  an  inexhaustible  treasure,  not  to 
speak  of  the  three-cent  pieces ;  and  she  had  no 
doubt  of  being  able  to  reach  the  city,  if  only  she 
could  escape  from  the  house  without  being  seen. 

There  is  an  old  story  that  tells  about  two 
angels  who  follow  us  wherever  we  go ;  and  one 
helps  and  encourages  us  in  good  works,  and  the 
other  in  evil.  Jessie's  bad  angel  must  have 
taken  great  pains  for  her  that  day,  otherwise  I 


156  BIRDS   OF   A    FEATHER. 

do  not  know  how  she  could  have  managed  to 
get  out  of  the  house,  where  so  many  people  were 
always  going  to  and  fro,  and  out  of  the  grounds 
where  some  of  the  children  were  always  at  play, 
without  being  seen  by  somebody.  She  certainly 
did,  however,  and  marched  straight  along  the 
public  road  to  the  railway  station,  entirely  un- 
interrupted. 

She  knew  nothing  about  the  hours  at  which 
the  trains  left  for  New  York,  but  it  so  happened 
that  a  down  train  was  due  in  a  very  few  minutes 
after  she  reached  the  depot.  The  people  were 
all  standing  outside  upon  the  platform,  waiting 
for  it ;  and  Jessie  had  only  time  to  buy  her  ticket 
at  the  office,  before  a  snorting  sound  in  the  dis- 
tance, a  puff  of  white  steam  blown  forward  by 
the  wind,  and  then  a  rushing,  fiery  gallop  of  the 
iron  horse  down  the  hill,  announced  the  arrival 
of  the  train. 

Theje  were  only  two  or  three  passengers  be- 
sides herself  at  this  hour  of  the  day  ;  and  as  if 
everything  happened  to  help  her  in  her  naughty 
plan,  they  were  all  strangers  to  Jessie,  and  all 
too  much  in  a  hurry  to  get  aboard  to  take  any 
notice  of  the  solitary  little  girl  who  followed  after 
them,  climbed  up  the  steps  without  help  from 


JESSIE'S  JOURNEY.  157 

any  father  or  brother,  and  took  her  seat  in  the 
far  end  of  the  car,  as  much  out  of  sight  as  possi- 
ble. In  a  minute  more  the  iron  horse  gave  an- 
other puff  and  snort,  and  plunged  away  again  ; 
and  Jessie  Joralemon  was  fairly  started  upon  her 
journey. 

She  looked  out  of  the  window  with  a  tri- 
umphant feeling,  as  the  clatter-clatter  of  the 
engine  grew  louder  and  faster,  and  the  station- 
house,  with  its  familiar  landmarks  around,  was 
left  far  behind. 

"  Now  I  am  free ! "  she  thought,  exultingly. 
"  I  guess  Master  Horace  won't  fetch  me  home 
again  in  a  hurry  —  ugly  thing!  and  mamma  will 
be  sorry  for  shutting  me  up,  when  she  finds  I  am 
gone.  Grandpapa  will  treat  me  better,  I  know 
he  will ;  and  I'll  stay  with  him  all  the  time,  and 
coax  him  not  to  let  papa  or  anybody  know 
where  I  am." 

Pleasant  visions  of  the  gay  life  she  would  lead 
at  grandpapa's  rose  up  in  her  imagination.  No 
lessons  to  learn,  no  hemming  or  knitting  to  do,  no 
music  to  practise,  no  big  brother  Horace  to  hector 
over  her;  she  would  lie  in  bed  as  long  as  she 
liked  every  morning,  and  sit  up  late  every  night ; 
she  would  have  strong  coffee  for  breakfast,  and 


150  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

floating-island  for  dessert ;  she  would  go  to  the 
Museum,  and  the  Central  Park,  and  the  Circus, 
and  have  no  end  of  nuts  and  raisins  every  even- 
ing. As  for  ice-cream  and  jelly-cake,  she'd 
soon  find  out  how  much  would  make  her  sick. 
Wasn't  Jet  grandpa's  pet  ?  and  she  guessed  she 
could  do  as  she  chose  in  his  house  —  there,  now  ! 
Clatter-clatter  up  hill  and  down  dale,  thunder- 
ing over  bridges,  flashing  past  green  meadows 
and  silvery  streams,  puffing  and  snorting  through 
pretty  way-side  villages,  rushing  into  tunnels  full 
of  smoky  darkness,  darting  out  again  into  fresh 
air  and  sunlight  —  away  went  the  iron  horse, 
carrying  little  Jessie  Joralemon  farther  and  far- 
ther from  her  safe  and  quiet  home  at  Windy- 
Knowe,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  noise  and 
bustle  and  bewilderment  of  the  great,  strange 
city.  She  was  not  afraid  ;  the  novelty  and  ex- 
citement of  her  adventure  had  not  yet  given 
place  to  any  fears  for  its  safe  termination,  and 
the  swift,  exhilarating  motion  was  delightful  to 
her  daring  spirit.  So  the  first  hour  of  her  journey 
was  all  enjoyment :  satisfaction  at  having  made 
her  escape  so  cleverly,  anticipation  of  the  wel- 
come she  would  receive  from  her  grandfather, 
and  pleasure  in  the  very  journey  itself. 


JESSIE  S  JOURNEY,  159 

But  there  came  a  change  to  this  pleasant  state 
of  feeling.  The  first  thing  that  caused  it  was 
the  sudden  coming  up  of  a  summer  storm.  The 
pretty  fleecy  clouds  that  had  been  sailing  so 
brightly  over  the  blue  sky  grew  all  at  once  dark 
and  lowering ;  the  trees  began  to  bend  before  a 
rising  wind,  and  soon  great  drops  of  rain  came 
dashing  up  against  the  window  beside  which 
Jessie  sat.  She  did  not  mind  it  much  at  first, 
being  sheltered  for  the  time,  and  not  thinking 
how  disagreeable  it  would  be  to  be  landed  in  the 
city  streets  in  a  drenching  ^rain.  But  the  dis- 
contented looks  of  the  people  around  her,  and 
their  expressions  of  annoyance  as  the  shower  in- 
creased, made  her  presently  realize  her  situation. 
She  began  to  watch  anxiously,  as  the  others  did, 
for  some  break  in  the  clbuds  that  should  give  a 
promise  of  sunshine  by  and  by.  But  none  came  : 
the  sky  darkened  more  and  more,  and  the  rain 
fell  with  a  steady  persistence  that  proved  it  no 
mere  transient  shower. 

Meanwhile  the  train  sped  swiftly  on,  and  they 
were  rapidly  nearing  the  city.  Soon  the  little 
Irish  cabins,  perched  among  the  rocks,  came  in 
sight ;  Jessie  could  see  the  goats  huddling  to- 
gether in  the  rain,  and  bare-footed,  shock-headed 


l6o  BIRDS   OF  A   FEATHER. 

children  running  out  in  spite  of  it,  to  look  at  the 
cars.  Then  came  groups  of  houses  of  a  better 
order ;  then  long,  ugly,  grimy  factories,  and 
presently  the  engine  began  to  slacken  speed,  and 
the  bell  to  ring  out  its  warning,  for  they  were 
fairly  in  the  city  streets.  People  gathered  up 
their  luggage,  and  wrapped  up  their  children  ; 
those  who  were  so  lucky  as  to  have  umbrellas 
brought  them  out  for  use  ;  those  who  had  none 
grumbled  audibly  at  the  provoking  rain.  But  it 
rained  on  in  spite  of  them  ;  and  Jessie,  who  hads 
nobody  to  speak  to,  looked  in  dismay  at  the 
streams  of  water'rushing  down  the  window-pane, 
and  wondered  how  she  would  ever  reach  her 
grandfather's  house. 

Her  pretty  Leghorn  hat,  with  its  white  ribbon 

9 

and  curling  ostrich  plume,  her  new  black  silk 
basque,  and  her  white  cambric  dress,  would  all 
be  in  a  sad  plight  before  she  could  reach  Second 
Avenue ;  for  there  was  no  omnibus  running 
across  from  Fourth  to  Second  Avenue,  and  she 
knew  that  she  would  have  to  walk  every  step  of 
the  way.  It  was  only  about  half  a  mile  —  noth- 
ing to  speak  of  in  pleasant  weather  ;  but  half  a 
mile  in  a  pouring  rain,  with  no  umbrella,  and 
your  best  clothes  on,  becomes  a  serious  matter; 


JESSIE'S  JOURNEY.  161 

and  the  more  Jessie  thought  about  it,  the  more 
serious  it  became  to  her. 

By  the  time  the  cars  stopped,  a  good  deal  of 
her  self-complacency  had  departed.  She  began 
to  think  that  perhaps  grandpapa  wouldn't  alto- 
gether approve  of  what  she  had  done,  after  all ; 
and  an  uncomfortable  misgiving  stole  over  her, 
that  Mrs.  Bunn,  the  housekeeper,  would  consider 
the  whole  proceeding  highly  improper  ;  especially 
if  she  arrived  with  her  clothes  all  drenched  and 
ruined,  as  they  certainly  would  be,  the  way  this 
rain  was  coming  down.  And  then  there  would 
be  no  dry  things  for  her  to  put  on,  for  there  were 
no  children  about  the  house,  and  she  could  hardly 
wear  grandpapa's  clothes,  or  Mrs.  Bunn's  either, 
for  that  matter. 

But  there  was  no  help  for  it  now,  and  she'  must 
make  the  best  of  it.  So  she  got  out  of  the  car, 
and  followed  the  crowd  into  the  ladies'  room  at 
the  depot,  trying  to  look  perfectly  self-possessed 
and  unconcerned ;  for  she  was  conscious  that 
people  were  noticing  her,  and  making  remarks 
about  so  young  a  child  being  left  to  travel  alone. 
A  great  many  curious  glances  were  directed  to 
her,  but  nobody  spoke ;  for  Jessie  was  a  proud 
little  thing,  and  her  face  wore  such  an  indepen- 
ii 


1 62  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

dent,  half-defiant  expression,  that  no  one  felt  at 
liberty  to  question  her. 

She  sat  down  by  a  window,  and  waited  a  while, 
to f see  if  the  rain  would  cease;  but  waiting  is 
tiresome  work  to  the  most  patient  of  people,  and 
Jessie,  not  having  any  gift  that  way,  found  it 
desperately  "  slow."  She  soon  made  up  her 
mind  that  it  was  going  to  rain  all  night,  and  she 
might  as  well  get  wet  first  as  last.  So  she  tied 
•her  pocket-handkerchief  over  her  hat,  by  way  of 
protection  to  its  white  ribbons,  and  marched  out 
into  the  street. 

A  crowd  of  hack-drivers,  in  shiny  oil-skin 
coats,  all  streaming  with  rain,  were  hanging 
round,  tormenting  people  to  "  have  a  carriage, 
sir?  have  a  carriage?"  men  were  hurrying  to 
and  fro  with  baggage,  people  jostling  each  other 
with  umbrellas,  and  such  a  general  bustle  and 
hubbub  going  on,  that  Jessie  could  hardly  make 
her  way  to  the  corner.  She  squeezed,  and 
pushed,  and  twisted  in  and  out  of  the  crowd, 
until  she  got  across  the  wide  avenue,  with  its 
tumult  of  trains  and  vehicles  passing  and  re- 
passing  in  such  perilous  confusion,  and  found 
herself  safe  at  last  in  the  quieter  street  below. 
But,  O,  how  dripping  and  drowned  she  felt 


JESSIE'S  JOURNEY.  163 

already !  Her  shoes  were  soaked  up  to  her 
ankles  ;  her  white  dress  clung  to  her  like  a  wet 
rag ;  and  her  hat,  in  spite  of  the  handkerchief, 
was  hopelessly  ruined  in  three  minutes'  time. 

No  matter,  she  must  go  on.  And  on  she  went, 
growing  wetter  and  wetter,  as  the  pitiless  rain 
pelted  down  upon  her.  '  Children  looked  out  of 
their  nursery  windows,  and  laughed  at  her,  as 
she  ran  dripping  by ;  and  mothers  wondered 
how  any  other  mother  could  leave  her  child  so 
unprotected.  But  Jessie  ran  on  desperately, 
jumping  over  gutters  swollen  with  muddy  water, 
and  getting  moi'e  than  one  slide  and  fall  upon 
the  slippeiy  flags,  Until  at  last  she  came  in  sight 
of  her  grandfather's  house. 

Never  was  there  a  more  welcome  sight  to  the 
drenched  and  breathless  child.  She  hurried  up 
the  steps,  and  gave  the  bell  such  a  pull,  quite  in- 
different for  the  minute  to  Mrs.  Bunn's  opinion, 
she  was  so  eager  to  get  under  shelter.  The  ring- 
ing sound  echoed  through  the  house,  and  came 
back  clearly  to  her  ears ;  but  no  sound  of  voice 
or  footstep,  in  answer  to  it,  followed.  She  rang 
again,  loudly  and  impatiently.  The  tinkling 
echoes  were  again  the  only  reply.  She  looked 
up  at  the  windows  ;  the  shutters  were  all  closed 


164  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

—  there  was  no  sign  of  anybody  stirring  about 
the  house. 

Jessie's  heart  sank  with  the  worst  fear  she  had 
known  yet.  But  it  was  too  terrible  to  believe  in 
without  making  another  effort ;  and  so  she  rang 
again,  and  again,  and  again,  jerking  the  bell- 
handle  till  she  almost  snapped  the  wire.  It  was 
all  to  no  purpose.  No  one  came  to  let  her  in, 
and  she  was  forced  to  believe  the  truth  at  last  — 
miserable  Jessie !  —  that  her  grandfather  and 
Mrs.  Bunn  were  both  away  from  home ;  and 
she  —  poor,  forlorn  little  runaway  —  had  nowhere 
in  all  the  great  city  to  go  for-shelter. 

She  felt  so  overwhelmed  at  first  that  she  could 
not  even  cry,  but  stood  and  stared  stupidly  at  the 
heavy  oak  door,  as  if  she  expected  it  to  open  of 
its  own  accord.  Then  all  the  wretchedness  of 
her  situation  seemed  to  come  upon  her  like  a 
sudden  flood,  and  she  crouched  down  upon  the 
wet  stone  steps,  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  Poor,  little,  desolate,  naughty  Jet !  She 
did  not  look  much  like  anybody's  "  pet "  as  she 
sat  there  sobbing  in  the  rain,  so  dirty  and  drag- 
gled and  forsaken  that  they  might  have  used  her 
for  a  scarecrow  in  the  cornfield. 

What  was  she  to  do?    Wherever  was  she  to 


JESSIE'S  JOURNEY.  165 

go?  She  did  not  know  anybody  in  all  New 
York  —  not  a  single  soul ;  and  she  would  have 
to  wander  in  the  streets  all  night,  or  maybe  be 
taken  up  by  a  policeman  and  put  in  the  station- 
house.  O,  dear,  if  she  only  hadn't  run  away ! 
if  she  could  only  get  home  again  !  But  here  it 
was,  raining  so  hard,  and  getting  darker  all  the 
time.  It  was  almost  night  now,  she  was  sure ; 
and  she  should  never  get  home  any  more.  She 
should  die  in  the  streets,  and  never  see  mamma 
again,  and  nobody  would  know  what  became 
of  her ! 

These  were  the  despairing  thoughts  of  her  first 
distress ;  but  by  and  by,  when  she  grew  a  little 
calmer,  a  more  sensible  idea  than  that  of  dying 
in  the  streets  came  to  her.  It  was  simply  to  go 
home  again,  the  same  way  she  had  come  ;  and, 
although  that  was  certainly  humiliating,  it  was 
nevertheless  better  than  sitting  all  night  on  grand- 
papa's doorsteps. 

You  see  Jet  was  a  sensible  child,  after  all,  in 
spite  of  her  naughtiness.  She  proved  it  by  get- 
ting up  at  once,  and  making  her  way  back  to  the 
New  Haven  depot  as  speedily  as  possible.  The 
children,  watching  at  their  nursery  windows, 
saw  her  go  past  again,  and  shouted,  — 


1 66  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

"  There  goes  that  little  girl  again  !  Only  see 
what  a  draggletail !  " 

And  their  mothers  pitied  her  once  more,  and 
wondered  what  could  have  happened  to  the 
child.  Jessie  could  not  hear  them ;  but  she 
would  not  have  cared  for  what  they  said  if  she 
had.  She  only  cared  now  to  reach  the  depot  in 
time  for  the  train  that  would,  take  her  home ; 
and  she  hurried  on  with  wild  haste,  plunging 
through  pools  of  muddy  water  without  a  thought 
of  her  clothes,  though  to  be  sure  they  were  past 
being  injured  now. 

It  was  the  good  angel,  I  think,  that  lent  her  a 
helping  hand  at  this  time  ;  for  she  reached  the 
depot  just  as  a  car  was  about  to  go  out  to  join 
the  up-train.  A  few  minutes  later,  and  she 
would  have  had  to  wait  a  whole  hour,  which 
would  have  made  the  matter  much  worse  than 
it  was ;  and  it  was  quite  bad  enough  already, 
Jessie  thought.  She  was  heartily  thankful  when 
she  found  herself  seated  in  the  car,  and  knew 
that  her  face  was  fairly  turned  homewai'ds ;  and, 
notwithstanding  all  that  had  happened,  she  was 
in  a  much  better  humor  than  when  she  had 
started  for  the  city. 

Meanwhile,  what  had  been  going  on  at  Windy- 


JESSIE'S  JOURNEY.  167 

Knowe?  The  first  thing  that  happened,  of  im- 
portance, was  the  unexpected  arrival  of  Mr. 
Joshua  Joralemon,  and  his  good  housekeeper, 
Mrs.  Bunn.  Grandpapa  had  taken  a  whim  to 
spend  a  day  or  two  at  Windy-Knowe ;  and,  as 
it  was  the  height  of  the  currant  and  raspberry 
season,  Mrs.  Bunn  thought  she  would  improve 
the  opportunity  to  make  jelly. 

There  was  a  shout  of  delight  and  surprise  at 
the  sight  of  them,  and  then  a  general  outcry, 
"Where's  Jet?  Call  Jet  to  see  grandpa!  " 

And  a  dozen  voices  called  Jet,  up  stairs  and 
down ;  but  no  Jet  responded.  Mrs.  Joralemon 
remembered  that  she  had  been  sent  up  in  dis- 
grace, and  went  to  her  room  to  look  for  her. 
But  she  did  not  find  her,  as  we  know  very  well ; 
and  nobody  else  could  find  her,  though  a  gen- 
eral and  particular  search  was  instituted  imme- 
diately. 

Horace  went  down  to  the  village,  and  the 
other  children  scattered  round  in  every  direction 
to  look  for  the  truant.  But  all  their  efforts  were 
in  vain,  of  course ;  and  then  everybody  grew 
frightened,  Mrs.  Joralemon  especially,  for  she 
was  sure  that  something  terrible  had  happened 
to  the  child,  and  could  hardly  be  persuaded  that 


1 68  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

her  body  would  not  be  found,  finally,  drowned 
in  the  pond  on  the  village  green."  When  her 
father  came  home,  he  found  the  household  in- 
the  greatest  distress.  The  heavy  rain  had  com- 
pelled them  to  give  up  their  search  for  the  lost 
child,  and  they  were  all  gathered  together  in- 
doors, in  a  state  of  despair.  Mrs.  Joralemon 
was  standing  at  a  window,  very  quiet,  but  pale 
as  death.  Some  of  the  children  were  sobbing 
in  a  sort  of  nervous  terror ;  and  poor  Horace, 
who  some  way  felt  as  if  he  was  guilty  of  all  the 
trouble,  watched  his  mother  and  the  rain  by 
turns,  and  wished  he  had  been  in  Jericho  before 
ever  he  had  meddled  with  Jet  and  her  mud  pies. 

Just  as  miserable  as  Jessie  had  been  in  New 
York  the  whole  family  were  at  Windy-Knowe. 
Mr.  Joralemon  and  grandpapa  got  into  the  light 
wagon,  and  drove  off  to  make  inquiries  at  all 
the  neighbors'  houses.  The  others  stopped  at 
home,  watching  the  dreary  ram,  and  waiting,  in 
anxious  expectation,  for  they  knew  not  what. 
Mischievous  and  troublesome  as  Jet  too  often 
was,  they  all  loved  her  dearly  ;  and  the  thought 
of  any  harm  coming  to  her  made  every  heart 
heavy  with  sorrow  and  dread. 

So  the  time  wore  on,  sadly  enough.     And  at 


JESSIE'S  JOURNEY.  169 

last  the  rain  ceased  to  fall,  and  the  clouds  cleared 
away,  just  in  time  to  let  the  sun  throw  a  parting 
glow  over  the  wet,  green  leaves.  It  lighted  up 
the  room  so  brightly,  for  a  moment,  that  a  gleam 
of  hope  flashed  up  almost  as  suddenly  in  their 
hearts.  Nobody  said  anything ;  but  all  at  once 
Horace  rushed  to  the  window,  and  gave  a  great 
shout. 

"  Hallo,  mother !  there  she  is  !  Here  comes 
Jet,  grandpa's  pet !  " 

And,  before  any  one  had  time  to  take  breath, 
he  had  jumped  through  the  window  out  upon 
the  wet  grass,  and  was  tearing  down  the  gravel 
walk  towards  a  little,  forlorn,  limp,  draggled, 
disreputable  object,  that  was  creeping,  slow  and 
ashamed,  up  to  the  house. 

"  Master  Horace  won't  fetch  me  home  again 
in  a  hurry !  "  Jessie  had  said  to  herself,  as  she 
rode  in  triumph  to  New  York.  She  did  not 
dream  how  soon  he  would  have  it  to  do,  and 
how  meekly  she  would  submit  to  it ! 

"  Well,  Jet,  where  under  the  sun  have  you 
been?"  he  began,  as  he  seized  her.  But  she 
burst  into  tears  for  her  only  answer  ;  and  Horace 
said  not  another  word,  but  just  snatched  her  up 
in  his  arms,  and  carried  her  bodily  to  the  piazza, 


170  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

where  everybody  had  collected  by  this  time,  full 
of  joyful  excitement  at  her  safe  return.  There 
he  put  her  into  her  mother's  hands,  as  he  had 
done  once  before  that  day,  and  said,  as  he 
did  so,  — 

"  Now,  Jet,  I'll  tell  you  what.  You  may  go 
down  to  the  village  every  day  of  your  life  after 
this  ;  and  I'll  never  meddle  .with  you  again  while 
my  name's  Horace  Joralemon.  Bet  your  boots 
on  that!" 

And  he  walked  off,  whistling  once  more.  But 
Jet  sprang  after  him,  and  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck.  "  I'll  never  go  again,  Horace,  never ! 
I'll  promise,  upon  my  word  and  honor ;  and 
I'm  —  so  —  sorry  !  " 

But  she  broke  down  here  with  a  jerk,  and 
finished  up  her  confessions  with  a  good  hearty  fit 
of  crying,  in  the  midst  of  which  she  was  carried 
off  up  stairs,  to  be  dressed  in  dry  clothes,  and 
made  decent  to  look  at.  I  am  happy  to  state, 
however,  that  she  made  a  point  of  keeping  that 
promise  ;  and  every  one  declares  that  Jet's  un- 
lucky journey  has  taught  her  a  better  lesson  than 
she  ever  learned  at  school. 


LOUISE'S  BIRTHDAY. 

THANKSGIVING  comes  on  the  twen- 
ty-seventh  this  year  !  Isn't  that  nice?" 

Louise  Ashley  had  picked  up  the  morning 
paper,  dropped  on  the  floor  as  her  father  left 
the  breakfast-table,  and  the  governor's  procla* 
mation  of  Thanksgiving,  just  issued,  had  been 
the  first  thing  to  catch  her  eye. 

"  Did  you  hear,  mamma?  Thanksgiving 
comes  on  my  birthday  again,"  she  repeated,  as 
her  mother,  who  was  busy  writing  out  a  list  for 
the  day's  supplies,  took  no  notice  o£  the  first 
exclamation. 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,"  was  the  rather  absent 
answer  given  then,  and  Mrs.  Ashley  glanced 
over  her  list,  to  see  if  she  had  forgotten  nothing. 

"  Run  down  to  the  kitchen,  Louise,  and  ask 
Kate  if  it  was  fine  hominy  or  samp  that  she 
wanted,  and  whether  there  is  cold  meat  enough 
in  the  pantry  to  do  for  dinner  to  day.  O  !  and 
if  the  grocer's  boy  left  the  pass-book  yesterday." 


172  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

Louise  pushed  her  chair  back  from  the  table, 
and  went  briskly  to  do  her  mother's  bidding. 
Slie  was  always  quick  to  comprehend  and 
deliver  a  message,  and  she  was  back  again 
immediately,  with  the  book  in  her  hand,  and 
the  cook's  instructions. 

"  Kate  says  there's  plenty  of  meat,  mamma, 
and  she  wants  fine  hominy  for  hominy-balls. 
And,  mamma,  hadn't  you  better  send  for  some 
raisins  for  the  fruit  cake  and  plum  puddings? 
It  takes  so  long  to  stone  them,  you  know,  and 
I  could  do  it  in  the  evenings,  after  I  learned  my 
lessons,  if  the  raisins  were  here." 

"  Fruit  cake  and  plum  puddings  !  My  dear, 
what  are  you  talking  about?"  her  mother  asked, 
in  surprise. 

"  Whyv  Thanksgiving,  of  course !  Didn't 
you  hear  me  say  just  now  it  comes  on  the 
twenty-seventh?  And  I  can  have  a  party,  as 
I  did  when  it  came  on  nay  birthday  before  — 
can't  I,  mamma?" 

Mrs.  Ashley's  face  grew  grave  all  at  once.  "  I 
am  afraid  not,  Louise,"  she  said,  gently.  "  You 
must  content  yourself  without  a  birthday  party 
this  year,  my  daughter." 

"I  wonder  why?"     Louise  gave   her   shoul- 


LOUISE'S    BIRTHDAY.  1 73 

ders  an  impatient  jerk,  always  a  sign  of  rising 
temper  with  her.  "  I  am  sure  you  said  '  Very 
well,'  when  I  spoke  of  it  at  first,"  she  went  on, 
fretfully  ;  "  and  now  you  tell  me  I  can't  have  it 
after  all.  I  think  it's  too  bad  !  " 

"  And  I  also  think  it  is  '  too  bad,'  Louise,  that 
you  should  speak  to  your  mother  so  disrespect- 
fully," Mrs.  Ashley  said,  quietly. 

"  But,  mamma,  I  do  want  the  party  so  much  ! 
Why  can't  I  have  it?  We  had  such  a  nice  time 
before,  —  Thanksgiving  and  a  birthday  together, 
—  and  I  always  thought  it  would  be  exactly  the 
same  whenever  Thanksgiving  fell  on  the  twenty- 
seventh." 

"  You  can  have  a  nice  time  still,  my  dear.  I 
mean  that  you  shall.  You  know  I  never  forget 
your  birthday,  and  that  I  always  try  to  make 
Thanksgiving  pleasant.  Your  aunt  and  cousins 
will  be  here  to  dinner,  and  we  will  all  have  a 
merry  evening." 

"  O,  pshaw  !  "  with  another  jerk  of  the  shoul- 
ders. "  I  can  see  my  aunt  and  cousins  any  time. 
That  isn't  half  as  nice  as  a  party,  and  I  don't  see 
why  I  mayn't  have  one.". 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  then,  Louise,"  Mrs.  Ashley 
said,  gently,  not  noticing  the  little  girl's  rude 


1 74  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

manner;  for  she  pitied  her  disappointment, 
and  regretted  being  obliged  to  inflict  it.  "  You 
are  old  enough  to  understand  something  about 
the  war  that  is  going  on,  and  the  high  prices 
that  have  been  put  upon  everything ;  and,  when 
I  tell  you  that  we  cannot  afford  to  give  you  a 
party,  you  will  understand  the  reason." 

"  But  I  am  sure  we  are  not  so  very  poor," 
said  Louise,  discontentedly.  "  I  heard  papa  tell 
you  myself  that  his  business  was  -very  good  this 
fall." 

"  There  is  so  much  the  more  reason,  then,  for 
us  to  help  others  who  are  poor,"  her  mother 
answered.  "  Everything  is  so  dear  —  food,  and 
fuel,  and  clothing  —  that  poor  people,  and  even 
people  who  in  better  times  would  be  able  to  live 
comfortably,  will  have  to  suffer  severely  this 
winter,  unless  others,  better  supplied,  are  willing 
to  help  them.  For  that  reason  I  say  we  cannot 
afford  to  spend  money  upon  a  party,  when  it  is 
needed  so  much  to  feed  the  hungry,  and  clothe 
the  naked.  I  should  think  you  would  feel  that 
yourself,  my  daughter,  without  any  more  words 

from  me." 

• 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to,  any  way,"  Louise 
said,  sullenly,  under  her  breath,  as  she  moved 


LOUISE'S    BIRTHDAY.  1 75 

away  from  her  mother.  Mrs,  Ashley  heard  the 
ungracious  speech,  and  it  made  her  sad  all  day  ; 
but  she  did  not  notice  it  then,  for  she  saw  that 
Louise  was  not  in  a  mood  to  be  benefited  by  any 
more  talking.  She  folded  up  her  housekeeping 
list,  and  went  up  stairs  to  find  Mr.  Ashley, 
leaving  her  daughter  to  get  over  her  ill-humor 
alone,  and  hoping  that  by  and  by  she  would 
come  into  a  happier  temper. 

But  the  little  girl's  disappointment  was  deeper 
than  her  mother  understood.  She  had  been 
talking  with  her  schoolmates  about  Thanks- 
giving, and  boasting,  as  little  girls  are  apt  to,  of 
the  great  things  that  would  happen  if  it  fell  on 
her  birthday.  She  had  promised  to  invite  her 
favorite  companions  to  the  party  that  she  was 
sure  to  have  ;  and  they  had  consulted  together  upon 
the  important  question  of  party  dresses,  Louise  as- 
serting that  she  meant  to  have  a  new  silk, 
trimmed  with  I  don't  know  how  many  ruffles 
around  the  skirt,  and  any  quantity  of  gilt  but- 
tons everywhere  else  !  Now  it  would  all  have 
to  be  taken  back,  —  party  and  invitations,  gilt 
buttons,  and  everything,  —  and  the  mortification 
of  this  was  worse  than  the  actual  loss  of  the 
party. 


176  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

She  went  to  school  that  morning  in  a  very 
uncomfortable  state  of  mind,  and  it  was  not 
bettered  by  her  first  greeting  from  Kitty  Price, 
the  most  particular  of  her  school  friends. 

"  O,  Louise  !  "  was  the  eager  salutation, .  fol- 
lowed by  a  rapturous  kiss,  as  the  two  little  maid- 
ens met  in  the  play-room.  u  Papa  read  out  of 
the  paper  this  morning  that  Thanksgiving  Day 
was  announced,  and  only  think,  it  really  falls  on 
your  birthday  ! .  Isn't  it  lovely  ?  " 

"  I  wish  it  didn't  I"  Louise  answered,  angrily  ; 
and  when  Kitty  exclaimed,  "  O ! "  with  her 
round  eyes  of  wonder  and  dismay,  she  went  on 
still  more  petulantly  :  — 

"  Why,  I  can't  have  my  birthday  party  at  all, 
just  for  a  foolish  notion  of  mamma's.  She  says 
the  times  are  so  hard  for  poor  people,  and  we 
ought  to  help  them,  and  not  spend  money  for 
parties.  And  so  I've  got  to  give  up  all  my 
pleasure  just  for  that.  I'm  so  provoked  I  don't 
know  what  to  do." 

She  knew  very  well  that  she  should  not  be 
doing  this;  that  if  her  mother  could  hear  her 
saying  such  things,  she  would  be  both  grieved 
and  indignant.  But  in  her  vexation  she  did  not 
care  to  do  right,  and  so  said  a  great  many  things 


LOUISE'S    BIRTHDAY.  1^7 

that  she  had  to  blush  for  afterwards  when  she 
remembered  them.  Kitty,  of  course,  sympa- 
thized and  condoled  with  her ;  but,  in  spite  of 
her  friendship,  she  could  not  help  triumphing  a 
little.  Louise  had  boasted  so  much,  and  now  it 
had  all  come  to  nothing !  Some  of  the  other 
girls,  when  they  came  to  hear  of  it,  expressed  the 
same  feeling  more  openly  ;  and,  before  the  day 
was  over,  poor  Louise  had  a  great  deal  to  bear 
in  the  way  of  pretended  pity  and  mocking  taunts 
about  the  sudden  failure  of  all  her  grand  plans. 

Of  course  she  came  home  in  no  amiable  mood 
when  school  was  over  at  last.  She  had  only 
been  sullen  when  she  went  away  in  the  morning ; 
now  she  was  irritable  and  passionate.  The  door- 
bell was  pulled  with  a  force  that  threatened  to 
snap  the  wires ;  her  books  slammed  down  upon 
the  hall-table  with  the  same  violence  ;  and  when 
her  little  brother  Hal  came  running  to  meet  her, 
with  his  loving  cry,  "  Weezy  tome  home,  see 
Hally  ! "  she  .would  not  even  give  the  dear  little 
fellow  a  look  to  pay  for  his  welcome. 

"  Out  of  my  way  ! "  was   her   only   greeting ; 
and    she    brushed    by    him    so    roughly   that    his 
unsteady  little   feet   lost   their   balance,   and    he 
toppled  over  on  the  oil-cloth,  getting  a   bruise 
12 


178  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

that  lingered  for  a  week,  to  reproach  his  sistei 
for  her  unkindness. 

She  did  not  even  stop  to  pick  him  up  then, 
however,  but  went  on  up  stairs  to  her  own  room, 
where  she  shut  herself  in  for  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon.  Mrs.  Ashley  had  gone  out  to  make 
some  calls,  and  did  not  return  till  nearly  dinner- 
time, so  that  nobody  interrupted  Louise's  soli- 
tude, and  she  was  at  liberty  to  indulge  her  sulks 
to  their  utmost  extent.  This  liberty  she  improved 
so  largely  that,  when  she  came  down  to  dinner 
at  last,  she  made  herself  disagreeable  to  every- 
body, and  twice  drew  upon  herself  a  rebuke 
from  her  father  for  impertinent  replies  to  her 
mother. 

The  evening  passed  quite  as  unhappily.  Lou- 
ise was  determined  to  feel  herself  aggrieved,  and, 
though  her  mother  showed  her  the  greatest  kind- 
ness and  consideration,  trying  to  talk  to  her  and 
interest  her  in  other  things,  she  still  refused  to 
be  mollified.  She  sulked  off  tombed  without 
kissing  any  one  good  night,  and  went  to  sleep 
without  saying  her  prayers  —  a  very  unhappy, 
as  she  was  certainly  a  very  naughty,  little  girl. 

Things  went  on  in  this  way  for  several  days. 
Louise  had  a  great  faculty  for  sulking,  nnc!  could 


LOUISES    BIRTHDAY.  179 

not  easily  give  up  her  sense  of  an  injury.  It  was 
kept  alive  at  school,  also,  by  the  frequent  com- 
ments of  Kitty  Price  and  others ;  and  Mrs.  Ash- 
ley was  much  distressed  by  this  wilful  persistence 
in  a  temper  so  unlovely.  She  had  thought  at 
first  that  she  would  take  no  notice  of  it,  but  trust 
to  Louise's  own  good  sense  to  make  her  ashamed 
of  it,  But  she  finally  determined  to  talk  seri- 
ously with  her,  and  make  her  see,  if  possible, 
how  wrong  and  foolish  her  behavior  was. 

She  called  her  into  her  room  one  day,  and 
talked  with  her  a  long  time,  earnestly  and  lovingly. 
She  told  her  how  much  suffering  and  poverty 
there  was  through  the  land  already,  how  much 
more  there  certainly  would  be,  and  how  religious 
a  duty  it  was  for  every  one,  who  could  spare 
anything  at  all  from  their  own  means,  to  assist 
in  relieving  these  bitter"  necessities.  She  asked 
her  if  she  could  be  happy,  wearing  her  costly 
party  dress,  and  entertaining  her  little  friends 
with  music  and  dancing,  and  expensive  refresh- 
ments, while  she  knew  that  other  children  were 

• 

suffering  with  cold  and  hunger? 

Louise  knew  in  her  heart  that  she  could  not 
be  ;  that  her  mother  was  right  in  everything,  and 
she  herself  altogether  wrong ;  yet  an  evil  spirit 


l8o  BIRDS  OF   A   FEATHER. 

of  pride  lingered  in  her,  and  would  not  let  her 
say  so.  She  could  not  bear  to  acknowledge  her 
selfishness,  and  confess  that  she  was  wrong.  So, 
after  all  her  tender  remonstrances,  Mrs.  Ashley 
had  to  go  away  sad  and  unsatisfied,  and  leave 
her  wilful  daughter  to  her  own  sullen  compan- 
ionship. Louise  was  ashamed  and  sorry  as  soon 
as  her  mother  had  left  the  room,  but  it  was  too 
late  then  to  say  so,  and  Mrs.  Ashley  never  al- 
luded to  the  subject  again. 

So  days  and  weeks  went  on,  and  Thanksgiving 
Day  was  near  at  hand.  There  were  no  great 
preparations  for  it  at  the  Ashleys',  as  there  had 
been  in  other  years.  The  grocer  brought  no 
boxes  of  raisins,  no  almonds  and  oranges,  no 
citron  and  spices ;  and  instead  of  the  large 
loaves  of  rich  fruit-cake,  and  the  ample  plum 
puddings  that  used  to  be  made  for  days  before- 
hand, Kate  seemed  only  to  be  making  the  great- 
est quantity  of  gingerbread,  and  plain  cookies, 
and  pumpkin  pies. 

Mrs.  Ashley  in  the  parlors  busied  herself  with 
much  sewing.  Every  evening,  for  weeks  past, 
she  had  been  working  upon  garments  that  Louise 
knew  would  never  be  worn  in  their  own  family. 
Now  it  was  a  child's  frock  or  apron,  then  a  flan- 


LOUISK'S  ::TRTIIDAY.  181 

nel  petticoat,  or  a  warm  quilted  one  ;  some  were 
made  of  old  dresses  of  her  own  ;  others  were 
pieced  of  odds  and  ends ;  all  were  plain  and 
simple,  but  strong  and  serviceable  for  use,  and 
evidently  intended  for  poor  people.  Louise  saw 
that  her  mother  was  putting  her  charitable  theo- 
ries into  practice.  She  often  longed  to  help  her 
when  she  saw  her  stitching  up  the  coarse  seams 
so  patiently  every  evening,  but  her  assistance  was 
never  asked,  and  she  felt  too  proud  and  ashamed 
to  volunteer  it. 

One .  morning,  at  the  breakfast  table,  her 
mother  said  to  her,  "  Louise,  ask  Miss  Derby, 
to-day,  if  she  will  be  kind  enough  to  excuse  you 
from  school  this  afternoon.  I  want  you  to  go 
out  with  me,  and  I  would  like  you  to  come  home 
to  luncheon." 

Louise's  face  brightened,  more  in  the  old  way 
than  her  mother  had  seen  it  lately,  and  her 
"  Thank  you,  mamma,"  sounded  full  of  pleasure. 
It  was  always  a  treat  to  go  out  with  her  mother, 
and  she  appreciated  it  the  more  now  for  feeling 
that  she  had  not  deserved  it  of  late. 

Mrs.  Ashley  saw  her  gratification,  and  her 
work  that  morning,  pleasant  work  as  it  was,  waa 
made  all  the  pleasanter  by  her  remembrance  of 


I S2  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

Louise's  bright,  grateful  manner,  so  different 
from  the  sullen  looks  she  had  worn  so  long. 

The  work  began  just  as  soon  as  the  breakfast 
dishes  were  removed  from  the  table.  Kate 
brought  in  a  number  of  baskets,  some  large, 
some  small,  and  ranged  them  on  the  floor ; 
then  she  brought  in  pumpkin  pies,  two  at  a 
time,  till  there  was  a  long  row  upon  the  dining- 
table ;  then  came  loaves  of  gingerbread,  and 
large  dishes  filled  with  caraway  cookies,  and 
sugar  cakes,  in  fanciful  shapes  of  hearts,  and 
stars,  and  oak  leaves  ;  then  a  great  basket  of 
apples,  and  another  of  walnuts,  black  and 
brown ;  then  two  or  three  pieces  of  roast  beef, 
two  or  three  more  of  pork,  and  two  pairs  of  fat 
chickens  ;  then  potatoes,  and  turnips,  and  cab- 
bages ;  then  loaves  of  bread  ;  and,  last  of  all, 
some  small  parcels,  from  which  the  pleasant 
fragrance  of  tea  stole  out  into  the  room. 

Mrs.  Ashley  filled  one  basket  after  another, 
selecting  from  the  stores  on  the  table  just  what 
she  knew  was  needed  in  each  family.  In  some 
she  put  meat,  and  a  plentiful  supply  of  vegeta- 
bles, where  she  knew  there  was  a  crowd  of 
hungry  little  mouths  to  be  filled  ;  in  others  she 
would  put  only  a  pie,  a  few  apples,  and  a  little 


LOUISE'S    BIRTHDAY.  183 

tea  and  sugar,  for  some  poor  old  woman,  per- 
haps, who  lived  alone,  and  would  be  glad  of 
the  unexpected  treat  for  her  Thanksgiving  din- 
ner. 

The  table  was  emptied,  at  last,  of  all  its  abun- 
dance, and  every  basket  well  filled.  The  warm 
garments  she  had  made  were  neatly  folded  on 
top  of  them,  and  each  basket  had  its  card  of 
direction  securely  fastened  and  plainly  written, 
so  that  the  expressman  who  was  to  call  for  them 
should  make  no  mistake  in  delivering  them  to 
their  proper  owners. 

There  was  no  trace  of  the  morning's  work  hi 
the  room  when  Louise  made  her  appearance  at 
luncheon,  for  the  express  wagon  had  rattled 
away  with  the  whole  load  of  baskets  an  hour 
before.  But,  although  nothing  had  been  said 
about  it,  she  felt  secretly  conscious  that  her 
mother  was  going  to  take  her  to  see  some  of 
the  poor  people  whom  she  often  visited  herself. 
She  was  not  surprised,  therefore,  when  Mrs. 
Ashley  got  out  of  the  car,  and  turned  off*  the 
avenue  into  a  shabby  side  street  that  Louise 
had  never  been  in  before. 

"You  are  not  tired,  I  hope,  my  dear?  We 
have  got  to  walk  down  to  York  street/'  her 


184  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

mother  said.  And  they  went  on,  block  after 
block,  the  houses  growing  more  shabby  all  the 
way,  until  at  last  they  reached  a  dingy-looking 
street  of  tumble-down  tenement-houses  and  mis- 
erable little  shops.  Half  way  down  the  block 
an  old  wooden  church,  with  a  cross  on  the  spire, 
reared  itself  among  the  wretched  buildings 
around ;  and  Mrs.  Ashley,  passing  by  this, 
entered  one  of  the  poorest  houses,  two  doors 
beyond.  Dirty  children  were  around  the  doors, 
and  ragged,  slatternly  women  stared  at  them  as 
they  mounted  the  rickety  stairs ;  but  Mrs.  Ash- 
ley went  on,  as  one  accustomed  to  the  place, 
never  stopping  till  she  reached  the  topmost  room. 
There  sheknocked'at  the  door,  and  it  was  opened 
by  a  young  Irish  woman,  whose  simple  face 
brightened  into  grateful  pleasure  at  the  sight  of 
her  visitor. 

"  O,  blessins  on  yez  !  Sure  an'  yer  the  lady 
that  I'm  always  glad  to  see,  thin,"  she  broke  out 
in  Irish  fashion.  And  two  little  children,  pretty 
in  spite  of  dirty  faces,  crowded  up  to  Mrs.  Ash- 
ley, as  if  they,  too,  were  "  always  glad  "  to  see 
this  lady. 

Louise  looked  round  her  in  painful  wonder 
when  she  was  seated  at  last  in  the  room.  Never 


LOUISE'S    BIRTHDAY.  185 

before  had  she  seen  a  place  so  destitute  of  all 
comforts  as  that  seemed  to  be  There  were  two 
chairs  only  in  the  room  ;  she  and  her  mother 
occupied  those,  and  the  Irish  woman,  Mary 
Dunlevy,  sat  on  an  old  wooden  block.  A  half- 
post  bedstead,  with  a  patched  calico  quilt,  stood 
in  one  corner  of  the  room  ;  a  rickety  table  was 
between  the  windows ;  a  shelf  with  a  few  bits 
of  crockery  in  another  corner  ;  and  an  old  cook- 
ing-stove in  the  fireplace.  This  was  all  the 
furniture.  The  children  wore  frocks  that  Louise 
easily  recognized  as  having  once  belonged  to  her 
little  brother  Hal,  and  Mrs.  Dunlevy  herself 
was  dressed  in  a  cast-off  wrapper  of  her 
mother's. 

Yet  miserable  and  poverty-stricken  as  every- 
thing about  her  was,  there  was  a  cheerful  pa- 
tience in  this  woman's  look  and  words  that  even 
Louise  could  feel.  She  seemed  so  happy  to  see 
Mrs.  Ashley  that  Louise  could  not  help  thinking 
how  few  pleasures  she  must  have  in  her  life 
when  such  a  little  thing  made  her  so  glad !  She 
listened  with  a  sense  of  shame  and  regret,  that 
grew  deeper  all  the  time,  to  the  talk  that  went 
on  between  her  mother  and  Mary  Dunlevy. 
The  children  had  each  been  made  happy  by 


1 86  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

the  gift  of  an  apple,  —  produced,  to  Louise's 
amazement,  from  her  mother's  pocket,  —  and 
were  sitting  in  a  corner  munching  them  in 
perfect  satisfaction.  The  mother  was  telling, 
in  the  simplest  words,  how  she  had  had  to 
struggle  to  keep  her  children  from  starving 
since  her  husband  "  went  to  the  war." 

"  An'  if  it  wasn't  for  yur,  ma'am,"  she  said, 
"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where  me  an'  the  little 
fellows  'ud.  ha'  been  now.  It  was  the  blessed 
Lord  that  sent  me  to  your  house  that  day,  sure  ; 
though,  indade,  ma'am,  'twas  a  heavy  heart  that 
went  wid  me." 

"  I  remember  the  day  very  well,"  said  Mrs. 
Ashley.  "  Everything  looked  very  dark  to  you 
then.  But  you  get  on  better  now?  " 

"  O,  yis,  ma'am  !  "  —  and  Louise  wondered  at 
her  bright  smile.  "  We've  never  had  to  go  hun- 
gry since  that  day.  There's  two  or  three  ladies 
that  give  me  work  steady  besides  yourself;  and 
the  little  fellows  are  hearty  now,  since  Johnny 
got  well  o'  that  burn.  The  father  '11  come  back 
to  us  some  day,  I'm  thinking,  an'  you'll  not  for- 
get us,  I  know." 

"  Of  course  not ;  and  there  is  some  One  else, 
better  than  I,  who  will  not  forget  you  either. 
You  must  remember  that." 


LOUISE'S    BIRTHDAY.  187 

"  Sure,  an'  I  do,  thin.  I  wouldn't  be  like  to 
forget  him  after  his  leadin'  my  feet  straight  to 
you  !  O,  indade  I  know  I  have  a  great  dale  to 
be  thankful  for,  an'  so  I  am." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  will  have  a  happy  day  to- 
morrow," Mrs.  Ashley  said,  kindly.  "  My  ex- 
pressman hasn't  been  here  yet  —  has  he?  He  has 
got  a  basket  for  you  somewhere,  with  some  little 
things  for  your  Thanksgiving  dinner  ;  a  nice  big 
cooky  for  you,  Johnny,  and  another  for  little 
Mike." 

"  An'  one  for  my  mudder,  too?  "  asked  Johnny, 
anxiously. 

"  O,  yes,  one  for  your  mudder,  too,"  Mrs. 
Ashley  answered,  laughingly.  "  You  are  a  good 
little  boy  to  look  out  for  your  mother,  Johnny. 
But  now  I  must  go  away  ;  and  you  watch  out  of 
the  window  till  you  see  the  expressman.  The 
basket  will  be  sure  to  come  by  and  by." 

Mrs.  Dunlevy's  grateful  thanks  followed  them 
to  the  door,  and  Louise  saw  how  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  as  she  clasped  her  mother's  out- 
stretched hand.  "  Mamma,  what  a  grateful 
creature  she  is!"  she  exclaimed,  enthusiasti- 
cally, when  they  were  fairly  outside.  "  And 
how  patiently  she  talks,  when  she  must  be  so 
very,  -very  poor  !  " 


iSS  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

"  She  has  had  to  support  herself  and  those  ba- 
bies for  more  than  two  years,"  said  Mrs.  Ashley. 
"  Her  husband  was  in  South  Carolina  when  the 
war  began.  Some  railroad  work  had  been  of- 
fered to  him,  and  he  left  his  wife,  thinking  to 
come  "back  in  a  few  months,  and  bring  her  a 
snug  little  sum  of  money.  Instead  of  that  he 
was  forced  to  join  the  Confederate  army  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war,  and  for  six  months  fought 
against  the  Union  —  very  unwillingly  he  says. 
After  that  he  got  an  opportunity  to  escape,  by 
giving  himself  up  as  a  prisoner  to  some  Northern 
pickets ;  and  six  months  ago  his  wife  had  a  letter 
from  him,  dated  from  Fort  Delaware,  where  he 
had  been  imprisoned.  That  letter  had  been  de- 
tained a  long  time,  so  that  when  she  sent  her 
answer  to  Fort  Delaware,  he  was  gone  from 
there,  nobody  knew  where.  Since  then  she  has 
never  heard  a  word  from  him,  and  doesn't  know 
whether  he's  living  or  dead.  He  has  never  sent 
her  a  dollar,  and  she  has  to  support  those  help- 
less little  children  whatever  way  she  can.  She 
came  to  my  house  one  day  last  summer,  desti- 
tute and  heart-broken.  One  child  was  in  her 
arms,  crying  with  the  pain  of  a  bad  burn ; 
the  other  was  clinging  to  her  skirts,  crying  for 


LOUISE'S    BIRTHDAY.  189 

something  to  eat.  And  she  was  half  frantic  be- 
tween them,  without  a  penny,  or  a  crust  of 
bread,  or  a  friend  to  turn  to.  You  see  how 
poverty-stricken  her  condition  is  still,  Louise, 
and  yet  you  heard  her  say  how  thankful  she 
was." 

"  O,  mamma  !  I  think  it  is  perfectly  pitiful !  " 
Louise  exclaimed.  "  I  am  so  ashamed  —  so 
sorry  —  " 

Her  voice  broke  down,  fairly  choked  with 
tears.  But  her  mother  knew  what  she  meant 
to  say. 

"  Then  you  think  I  was  right  about  the  party, 
after  all  ?  You  would  rather  Mary  Dunlevy  had 
a  ton  of  coal,  to  keep  her  warm  all  winter,  than 
to  have  a  new  silk  dress  yourself?  Because  I 
could  not  have  afforded  both,  you  know." 

"  I  never  want  another  silk  dress !  "  Louise 
cried,  with  emphasis.  "  I'll  do  without  every- 
thing—  I'll  wear  my  old  hat  this  winter — I'll 
do  anything  in  the  world,  mamma,  if  you'll  only 
forget  how  hatefully  I  behaved  about  that  party. 
If  you  knew  how  ashamed  of  myself  I  have  been 
all  along !  But  I  was  too  proud  to  tell  you  so." 

"  Too  proud  to  tell  your  mother?  O,  Louise  !  " 

And  that  tone  of  sorrowful  reproach  made  the 


190  BIftDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

child  more  ashamed  and  penitent  than  anything 
else  could  have  done.  She  vowed  in  her  heart 
that  she  never  again  would  grieve  her  mother 
by  her  sullen,  unlovely  tempers  ;  and  that  this 
should  be  a  lesson  to  her  as  long  as  she  lived. 

But  there  was  not  time  to  say  any  more  about 
it,  for  Mrs.  Ashley  had  found  another  of  her 
poor  people,  and  was  climbing  up  another  flight 
of  tumble-down  stairs,  whose  worn  steps  creaked 
under  their  feet  as  they  mounted.  This  time  it 
was  an  old  woman  that  she  went  to  see  —  a  poor 
old  creature,  whose  wrinkled  cheeks  and  trem- 
bling, misshapen  hands  told  of  many  a  sorrow 
and  many  a  hardship.  But  her  homely  old  face 
was  lighted  up  now  with  beaming  smiles.  Mrs. 
Ashley's  messenger  had  been  there,  and  the  con- 
tents of  the  basket  —  a  pie,  a  paper  of  tea  and 
sugar,  a  loaf  of  cake,  some  apples,  and  best  of 
all,  a  nice,  thick,  calico  double-gown  —  were 
spread  out  around  her. 

It  made  the  girl's  heart  thrill  with  a  pride  and 
love  for  her  mother  that  she  had  never  felt  be- 
fore, as  she  saw  these  tokens  of  her  thoughtful- 
ness  and  tender  charity,  and  heard  poor  old 
widow  Maloney  pouring  out  thanks  and  bless- 
ings upon  her.  She  began  to  wonder  if  she 


LOUISE  S    BIRTHDAY.  19! 

herself  could  not  do  something  to  deserve  these 
blessings  of  the  widow  and  orphan ;  and  before 
she  went  home  that  day  the  wondering  thought 
resolved  itself  inta  a  purpose. 

If  you  could  look  into  the  prettily-furnished 
chamber  that  Louise  had  for  her  own,  some 
Saturday  afternoon,  and  see  the  busy  group 
gathered  there,  —  Kitty  Price,  with  her  auburn 
curls  and  saucy  smile  ;  Lily  Delano,  grave  and" 
gentle,  but  with  such  swift  fingers  at  her  needle  ; 
Harriet  Macaulay,  and  Mabel  Shonnard,  and 
Ida  Pierson,  all  as  busy  as  bees  in  a  hive,  — 
you  might  guess  what  the  purpose  was.  Some 
time  I  may  tell  you  a  story  about  this  little  sew- 
ing society,  organized  by  Louise  and  her  com- 
panions, and  the  results  achieved  by  it ;  but  now 
I  must  finish  my  history  of  the  visits  made  that 
afternoon. 

There  was  one  to  see  a  child,  about  as  old  as 
Louise,  whose  foot  had  been  crushed  in  step- 
ping off  a  ferry-boat.  She  had  suffered  dreadful 
pain,  and  the  doctor*  said  it  would  be  a  year 
before  she  could  stand  on  the  foot  again.  Louise 
thought,  as  she  looked  at  the  child's  pale  cheeks 
and  hollow  eyes,  that  before  the  year  was  out 
the  poor  foot  would  be  at  rest  forever,  never  to 


192  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

know  any  more  pain.  But  still  she  sat  up  in 
her  chair,  patient  and  smiling,  "  trying  to  help 
a  little,"  as  she  said,  by  wrapping  wire  for  some 
factory  work  that  her  sister"  was  busy  with. 
There  was  a  Thanksgiving  basket  for  them, 
and  the  sick  child  watched,  with  happy  eyes, 
the  large  orange,  and  the  glass  of  ruby-colored 
jelly,  put  in  expressly  for  herself. 

In  another  house  there  was  a  family  of  father- 
less children,  made  so  by  the  war.  The  father 
had  been  buried  on  the  bloody  battle-field  of 
Antietam,  and  poverty  was  beginning  to  be  felt, 
in  addition  to  the  sore  and  recent  grief.  It  was 
little  that  Mrs.  Ashley  could  do  to  comfort  them 
in  such  trouble  ;  still  Louise  could  see  how  her 
tender  words  of  sympathy  went  straight  to  the 
poor  mother's  heart,  and  how  the  generous  sup- 
ply of  provisions  and  needful  garments  went 
far  to  lighten  her  heavy  load  of  anxiety. 

"  We  shall  have  a  day  of  Thanksgiving,  ma'am, 
in  spite  of  our  sorrow,"  she  said.  "  God  is  good 
to  us  still." 

"  Indeed  he  is  ;  indeed  he  always  will  -be," 
Mrs.  Ashley  answered,  earnestly.  "  He  has 
promised  to  take  care  of  the  widows  and  the 
orphans,  you  know,  and  he  will  never  forsake 


LOUISE'S    BIRTHDAY.  193 

you  while  you  trust  in  him.  It  is  very,  very 
hard  often,  I  know ;  but  he  sees  what  is  best, 
and  he  does  not  leave  us  comfortless." 

"  My  mother  is  the  best  woman  in  the  world," 
thought  Louise,  as  they  went  away ;  and  the 
conviction  grew  stronger  as  she  followed  her 
from  one  poor  home  of  sorrow  and  suffering  to 
another,  and  saw  how  everywhere  she  left  bright 
faces  and  grateful  hearts  behind  her.  There  was 
a  sick  baby  in  one  room,  that  moaned  and  fretted 
in  its  cradle  when  she  went  in.  The  mother 
was  ironing,  and  had  no  time  to  hold  it ;  but 
Mrs.  Ashley  took  it  up  as  tenderly  as  if  it  had 
been  her  own,  bathed  its  little  hot  face,  and 
rocked  it  softly  on  her  knee  until  it  was  soothed 
into  quiet  sleep. 

In  another  room,  in  the  same  tenement,  a 
woman  was  dying  with  consumption  ;  and  here, 
besides  the  Thanksgiving  basket,  Louise  recog- 
nized a  dozen  things  that  she  knew  had  come 
from  her  mother.  The  old-fashioned  rocking- 
chair,  with  its  comfortable  cushions,  she  had 
missed  from  the  attic  not  long  since ;  the  white 
sheet  and  pillow-slip  on  which  the  poor,  pale 
cheek  rested,  were  marked  "  Ashley ;  "  the  jar 
of  orange  marmalade  on  the  dresser  had  her 
'3 


194  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

mother's  handwriting  on  the  label ;  and  there 
were  books  on  the  little  table  beside  the  bed 
that  Louise  had  seen  many  a  time  before.  Her 
mother  took  up  one  of  these,  and  read  to  the 
sick  woman  some  tender  words  of  hope,  and 
faith,  and  patience,  that  brought  a  look  of  peace 
and  gladness  to  her  eyes. 

"  To-morrow  is  Thanksgiving  Day,"  said 
Mrs.  Ashley,  when  she  rose  to  go.  "  It  will  be 
spent  in  weakness  and  pain,  perhaps,  by  you  ; 
but  you  will  feel,  I  am  sure,  that  you  have  some- 
thing to  be  thankful  for  still." 

"  God  bless  you,  ma'am  ;  indeed  I  will.  You 
have  made  all  my  days  Thanksgiving  days,"  was 
the  loving  answer. 


So  they  went  home  in  the  deepening  twilight ; 
Louise  with  a  heart  full  of  new  and  tender 
thoughts,  and  her  mother  glad  and  grateful  to 
see  that  the  evil  spirit  of  pride  and  selfishness 
was  banished  at  last.  The  bright  windows  of 
their  own  home  flashed  out  a  welcome  to  them 
as  they  reached  it ;  and  there  was  Hal's  dear 
little  nose  flattened  up  against  the  pane,  on  the 
watch  for  them.  You  maybe  sure""Weezy" 
gave  him  kisses  enough  this  time  ! 


LOUISE'S    BIRTHDAY.  195 

And  then  came  the  morning  —  Louise's  birth- 
day, and  Thanksgiving  Day  too.  Her  father 
and  her  mother  gave  her,  each,  a  loving  kiss 
when  she  came  down  to  prayers ;  and  little  Hal 
rushed  up  to  her,  holding  something  gathered 
up  in  his  frock,  and  shouting  out,  — 

"  I'se  dot  a  p'esent  for  you,  Weezy  !  Hally's 
dot  a  birseday  p'esent  for  you  !  " 

And  what  should  it  be  but  a  beautiful  photo- 
graph album,  bound  in  green  morocco,  with  her 
own  initials  in  relief  upon  the  cover,  —  the  very 
thing  she  had  been  wishing  for.  Inside  were  a 
lot  of  pictures,  too,  that  she  had  never  seen  ;  a 
lovely  vignette  of  her  mother,  in  the  first  place, 
with  that  sweet,  spirituelle  expression  that 
Louise  had  never  fully  appreciated  until  yes- 
terday. Then  a  fine  likeness  of  her  father,  and 
the  most  charming  picture  of  cunning  little  Hal, 
in  a 'cocked  hat,  with  a  toy  gun  on  his  shoulder. 
There  were  some  sweet  little  baby  pictures  of 
Louise  herself,  copied  from  old  daguerreotypes, 
and  a  set  of  the  "  Palmer  Marbles  "  besides.  So 
that  her  album  was  half  full  already. 

Altogether  it  was  a  most  satisfactory  birthday, 
although  there  was  no  party,  and  no  new  dress. 
Louise  wore  her  blue  merino  to  church,  but 


196  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

never  thought  of  its  being  a  last  winter's  frock, 
and  quite  old-fashioned  in  comparison  with 
Kitty's  Price's  plaid  poplin,  made  in  the  latest 
"  Zouave  "  style.  The  sermon  had  a  great  deal 
to  say  about  the  duty  of  remembering  the  .poor, 
and  how  the  right  way  to  prove  our  own  thank- 
fulness was  to  help  others  to  be  thankful  also ; 
and  Louise  thought  of  what  she  had  seen  yes- 
terday, and  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  notice  who 
wore  handsome  dresses  or  who  didn't. 

They  never  had  a  merrier  dinner  party,  either, 
although  there  was  not  the  least  bit  of  plum 
pudding  for  dessert.  Everybody  praised  Kate's 
pumpkin  pies,  however,  —  "  the  genuine,  far- 
famed,  Yankee  pumpkin  pie,"  —  and  the  chil- 
dren had  plenty  of  apples  and  nuts,  and*molasses 
candy  of  their  own  making,  which  they  declared 
to  be  a  great  deal  nicer  than  French  sugar  plums. 

"  It's  the  happiest  birthday  I  ever  had,  mam- 
ma," Louise  said,  when  her  mother  came  to  kiss 
her  good  night,  after  she  had  gone  to  bed.  "  I 
thought  about  those  poor  people  through  every- 
thing, and  I  was  so  glad  —  so  glad —  that  you 
did  not  let  me  have  that  party." 


LUCY'S   BEST  HAT. 

"     A     PLACE  for  everything,  and  everything 

-Z~~\.  in  its  place,"  was  a  proverb  that  Mrs. 
Gifford  very  often  repeated  to  her  little  daughter 
Lucy.  She  had  good  reason  for  it,  for  Lucy  was 
one  of  those  heedless  children  who  never  put 
anything  in  its  place,  and  was  always  in  a  dif- 
ficulty of  some  sort  in  consequence. 

"  If  you  only  would  hang  up  your  hat  when 
you  come  in  from  play,  Lucy,  how  much  trouble 
and  vexation  it  would  save,"  said  her  mother, 
one  morning,  after  half  an  hour  had  been  wasted 
in  a  vain  search  for  the  missing  hat,  and  the 
ninth  stroke  of  the  clock  had  already  proclaimed 
her  late  for  school. 

"  I'm  sure  I  o?zV/hang  it  up  !  "  Lucy  exclaimed, 
her  first  impulse  being  always  to  excuse  herself. 
"  The  children  must  have  taken  it  down  ;  they 
are  always  meddling  with  my  things." 

"  They  never  meddle  with  them  when  they 
are  put  in  the  proper  place,"  her  mother  an- 


190  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

svvered ;  "  but  that  is  a  piece  of  good  fortune 
that  seldom  happens  to  your  things,  Lucy. 
However,  it  is  only  wasting  time  to  talk  about 
it.  You  must  go  to  school,  and  you  have  noth- 
ing to  wear  but  your  best  hat.  So  go  up  stairs 
for  it  quickly." 

Lucy  needed  no  second  bidding  for  this.  With 
nimble  feet  she  flew  up  stairs,  and  with  ready 
fingers  she  drew  out  the  pretty  Sunday  hat  from 
its  box,  and  buttoned  the  elastic  band  under  her 
chin.  She  was  very  fond  of  wearing  nice 
clothes ;  and  this  hat,  with  its  long  ribbon 
streamers,  and  its  brilliant  bunch  of  poppies 
and  green-grass  blades,  'all  spangled  with  "  dew- 
drops,"  was  a  grand  improvement  upon  the 
plain,  tan-colored  straw,  with  its  brown  trim- 
mings, that  she  wore  to  school  every  day.  She 
surveyed  herself  with  a  satisfied  air,  as  she  stood 
before  the  nursery  mirror,  and  — 

"  How  nice  I  look ! "  was  the  complacent 
reflection.  "  Anna  Stanton  won't  call  me  Qua- 
ker to-day,  I  guess.  I  don't  believe  her  Sunday 
hat  is  as  pretty,  for  all  she  is  so  grand  every 
day." 

"  And  if  I  was  your  mother,  I'd  set  you  up 
with  Sunday  hats,"  grumbled  Catharine,  the 


LUCY'S    BEST    ITAT.  199 

nursery-maid,  who  had  been  trotting  up  and 
down  stairs  in  search  of  the  tan-color  until  her 
feet  were  tired,  and  her  temper  slightly  the  worse 
for  wear.  "  Much  you  rriind  all  the  trouble 
you've  given  people  this  blessed  day !  You 
should  wear  your  old  winter  hood  if '  I  was 
your  mother,  and  not  be  prinking  there  before 
the  glass  with  your  best  things  on,  I  can  tell 
you,  miss." 

"  And  I  can  tell  you  that  you'd  better  mind 
your  own  business,  and  not  be  lecturing  me ! " 
said  Lucy,  pertly.  "  You're  not  my  mother,  nor 
likely  to  be,  thank  goodness  !  " 

"  Indade,  an'  I  can  thank  goodness  for  that, 
too,"  retorted  Catharine  ;  "  an'  it's  a  fine  thing 
we've  got  such  thankful  hearts  —  the  two  of  us." 

"  I  shall  tell  mamma  of  you ! "  Lucy  ex- 
claimed, angrily,  exasperated  by  the  maid's 
scornful  air.  But  her  mother  called  impera- 
tively at  that  moment  from  the  foot  of  the 
stairs, — 

"  Lucy,  how  much  longer  do  you  intend  to 
delay?  Come  down  immediately,  and  go  to 

school ! " 

• 

So  there  was  no  time  for  complaints  of  Cath- 
arine, and  her  irritation  was  soon  forgotten  in 


2OO  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

her  complacent  consciousness  of  her  fine  hat  as 
she  walked  along  to  school ;  not  a  single  com- 
punction for  her  heedlessness,  or  the  trouble  it  had 
caused  her  mother  and  Catharine,  disturbed  her 
mind  :  she  did  not  even  feel  ashamed  at  her  teach- 
er's reproof  for  tardiness,  and  the  assurance  that 
she  would  get  a  bad  mark.  She  saw  the  eyes 
of  her  classmates  —  Anna  Stanton's  in  particular 
—  fixed  upon  her  poppy-flowers  and  white  rib- 
bons as  she  passed  on  to  the  wardrobe,  and  her 
foolish  vanity  excluded  every  better  feeling. 

It  would  hardly  require  a  prophet  to  foresee 
that  a  day  begun  after  this  fashion  was  not  likely 
to  be  a  good  day.  Her  heedlessness  went  into 
her  lessons,  as  into  everything  else.  She  always 
put  off  studying  them  until  the  last  minute,  and 
her  Geography  and  Definitions,  especially,  she 
never  looked  at  until  the  half  hour  allowed  for 
extra  preparation  before  reciting.  To-day,  to 
her  dismay,  she  discovered  that  both  those  books 
were  missing  from  her  desk.  She  had  not  the 
dimmest  idea  when  or  where  she  had  seen  them 
last  —  only  a  faint  recollection  of  having  squeezed 
the  book  of  Definitions  into  the  crown  of  her  tan- 
colored  hat  (not  much  to  the  improvement  of  its 
shape)  at  some  time  or  other,  yesterday  after- 


LUCY'S  BEST  HAT.     Page  198. 


LUCY'S    BEST    HAT.  2OT 

noon.  It  was  probably  keeping  company  with 
die  hat  still,  in  some  unknown  corner,  and  as  for 
the  Geography  —  well !  it  wasn't  in  her  desk,  at 
any  rate,  and  any  further  speculations  concern- 
ing it  were  useless. 

Her  recitations  in  these  branches  to-day  were 
not  altogether  satisfactory  to  her  teacher.  She 
did  her  best,  peeping  over  the  shoulders  of  the 
girl  in  front  of  her,  and  snatching  a  word  here 
and  there  from  the  open  book  of  the  girl  who 
sat  beside  her.  But  the  answers,  on  the  whole, 
were  of  such  a  speculative  and  imaginary  char- 
acter, that  Miss  Hartley  was  indignant,  and  the 
girls  excessively  amused. 

"  It  was  all  her  new  hat,  you  may  be  sure," 
said  Anna  Stanton,  at  recess.  "  She's  got  pop- 
pies on  the  brain." 

At  which  brilliant  witticism  there  was  a  gen- 
eral laugh,  which  grew  loud  and  long  when 
Lucy  and  the  poppies  marched  into  the  play- 
ground, grand  and  unconscious. 

"What's  the  fun?"  she  asked.  "What  are 
you  all  laughing  at?" 

"  O,  nothing  !  "  cried  Anna  Stanton,  malicious- 
ly, "but  a  little  geographical  exercise.  We 
were  giving  the  boundaries  of  Brazil  after  the 
view  style." 


2O2  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

"No  such  thing!"  exclaimed  Nelly  Har- 
baugh.  "  We  were  defining  idiosyncrasy  after 
the  new  style." 

"  You  be  still ! "  Anna  retorted.  "  I  say, 
Lucy,  don't  you  want  to  hear  the  new  boundary 
of  Brazil?  On  the  north  by  two  large-sized 
poppies,  on  the  east  by  a  Leghorn  hat,  on  the 
south  by  sixteen  blades  of  grass,  'with  the  morn- 
ing-dew thrown  in,  on  the  west  by  three  yards 
of  white  ribbon,  warranted  not  to  wash  !  " 

Another  peal  of  laughter  followed  this  smart 
speech,  and  before  Lucy  could  make  any  reply, 
Nelly  Harbaugh  began  a  string  of  nonsense 
equally  witty  and  equally  ill-natured,  in  which 
Lucy's  hat  and  her  unfortunate  failures  in  defi- 
nitions were  absurdly  connected.  In  the  midst 
of  it,  Anna  Stanton,  anxious  to  make  a  further 
display  of  her  cleverness,  broke  in  with  a  parody 
upon  Betty  Martin,  which  she  sang  at  the  top  of 
her  voice,  — 

"  Hi,  Lucy  Gifford,  tip-toe,  tip-toe, 
Hi,  Lucy  Gifford,  tip-toe  fine ; 

She  can't  wear  a  brown  hat,  she  can't  wear  a  black  hat, 
She  has  to  have  a  Leghorn  to  please  her  mind ! " 

This   was   too    much   for   endurance.      Lucy, 


LUCY  S    BEST    TIAT.  2O$ 

half  choking  with  rage,  gasped  out,  "  I'll  tell 
Miss  Hartley,  so  I  will ! "  and  flew,  furious, 
from  the  playground  up  to  the  class-room  again. 
Miss  Hartley  sat  there  sharpening  lead-pencils, 
and  took  the  complaint  very  coolly. 

"  I  am  sorry  the  little  girls  laugh  at  you,  my 
dear,"  she  said ;  "  but  you  know  you  did  make 
most  ridiculous  mistakes  in  your  lessons.  I  was 
quite  provoked  with  you,  for  there  is  no  excuse 
for  such  failures.  That  you  lost  your  books,  was 
certainly  not  one :  it  was  rather  an  aggravation 
of  the  offence." 

"  They  need  not  make  fun  of  my  hat  at  any 
rate,"  sobbed  Lucy,  passing  by  the  book  ques- 
tion. "  I'm  sure  it's  as  nice  and  pretty  as  any  of 
theirs." 

"  Very  pretty,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Hartley ; 
"  rather  .fine  for  school,  however,  and  that  is  the 
reason,  I  suppose  —  together  with  the  fact  that 
you  were  a  little  vain  of  your  appearance  in  it  this 
morning  —  that  the  girls  were  tempted  to  laugh 
at  you.  At  the  same  time  it  was  not  kind  of  them,, 
and  I  shall  tell  them  so  when  they  crime  in." 

Cool  comfort,  but  all  that  was  to  be  got  from 
Miss  Hartley  ;  so  Lucy  retired  to  her  desk  in  the 
frame  of  mind  generally  described  as  the  "  sulks." 
It  was  not  improved  by  the  taunts  and  whispers 


204  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

of  her  schoolmates  after  Miss  Hartley's  reproof 
for  their  ridicule  of  her.  "  Tell-tale  !  Cry-baby  ! 
Dear  little  thing,  it  shouldn't  have  its  fine  hat 
laughed  at,  so  it  shouldn't,  bless  its  little  heart !  " 
were  some  of  the  jeers  that  Anna  Stanton  and 
her  set  kept  flinging  to  and  fro  all  the  afternoon. 
Lucy  felt  as  if  she  was  being  slapped  and 
pinched,  or  stung  by  invisible  gnats ;  she  would 
have  liked  to  strike  Anna  Stanton,  she  was  so 
angry  with  her ;  but  she  could  not  complain,  for 
no  one  actually  said  anything  to  her.  The  mock- 
ing whisper  floated  past  her  in  the  air  like  thistle- 
down, and  when  she  turned  to  catch  it,  it  was 
gone. 

It  was  altogether  a  most  miserable  afternoon, 
and  Lucy  was  glad  to  escape  from  her  tormentors 
by  going  home  as  soon  as  possible  after  school 
was  dismissed.  She  did  not  carry  her  head  quite 
so  proudly  as  she  had  done  in  the  morning  ;  neither 
did  she  stop  to  "  prink "  at  the  looking-glass,  as 
Catharine  said,  before  she  took  off  the  unfortu- 
nate "best  hat." 

"  I'll  never  wear  it  to  school  again  —  never  !  " 
was  her  inward  determination.  "  I'll  find  my 
brown  hat,  if  I  have  to  search  all  night  for  it ! " 

As  "it  happened,  however,  the  brown  hat  was 
already  found.  "  Tito,"  a  little  dog  belonging 


LUCY'S    BEST    HAT.  205 

to  the  children,  had  dragged  it  up  by  its  ribbons 
from  the  coal-cellar,  the  book  of  Definitions  still 
jammed  in  the  crown ;  and  Lucy  all  at  once 
remembered  that  she  had  come  in  through  the 
basement  entrance  the  afternoon  before,  and  left 
the  hat  and  books  on  a  bench  in  the  cellar,  while 
she  passed  on  to  the  kitchen  to  get  a  glass  of 
water.  From  there  she  went  into  the  garden,  to 
look  at  some  double-spotted  lady-slippers  just 
blooming,  and  then  a  story-book  claimed  her 
attention,  so  that  she  did  not  care  about  going 
out  to  play,  and  the  hat  was  forgotten  from 
henceforth. 

It  was  in  a  dismal  plight  when  Tito  finally 
brought  it  up  stairs.  He  had  dragged  it  about 
amongst  the  coal  until  it  was  almost  as  black  as 
it  was  brown,  and  as  for  the  shape  it  was  left 
in,  the  least  said  on  the  subject  is  soonest 
mended. 

Whether  it  could  ever  be  worn  again  was  a 
doubtful  question  ;  at  the  least  it  would  be  a  week 
before  it  could  be  made  fit  to  be  seen,  the  mil- 
liner said.  So  Miss  Lucy  had  to  wear  her  Leg- 
horn again  in  spite  of  her  resolution,  and  to  put 
up  with  plenty  of  teasing  in  consequence ;  for, 
when  school-girls  take  up  a  silly  joke,  they  are 
not  apt  to  drop  it  in  a  hurry. 


2O6  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

A  certain  amount  of  vexation,  however,  is 
wholesome,  by  way  of  warning.  What  her 
mother's  gentle  remonstrances  -could  not  effect, 
the  raillery  of  her  schoolmates  did ;  and  now 
Mrs.  Gifford  congratulates  herself  that  Lucy 
has  really  begun  to  appreciate,  and  put  in  prac- 
tice, that  excellent  old  rule,  of  "  a  place  for  every- 
thing, and  everything  in  its  place." 


TOM'S    ALLOWANCE: 

HOW   HE    EARNED    IT,  AND    HOW    HE    SPENT    IT. 

DEAR!  The  house  is  as  cold  as  a 
barn.  I  do  wish  Uncle  Levi  would 
speak  to  that  lazy  Tom,  and  make  him  light  the 
stove  a  little  before  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning." 
Miss  Julia's  shoulders,  very  much  shrugged 
up,  and  the  expression  of  her  countenance,  at 
this  moment  decidedly  cross,  were  quite  in  keep- 
ing with  this  impatient  speech.  It  was  a  frosty 
October  morning,  in  a  climate  where  winter 
begins  early,  and  there  was  no  denying  that  the 
room  had  a  very  barn-like  feeling,  and  a  very 
comfortless,  discouraging  appearance  in  the  cold, 
gray  light  of  the  early  hour ;  for  it  was  not  ten 
o'clock,  or  anywhere  near  it,  —  that  was  only  a 
little  exaggeration  of  Miss  Julia's,  —  as  the  hands 
of  the  old-fashioned  "  moon-face  "  in  the  corner, 
just  now  pointing  to  seven,  were  ready  to  prove. 
It  was  a  great,  queer,  old-fashioned  room, 

(207) 


2O8  BIRDS   OK   A   FEATHER.      - 

altogether.  The  eight-day  clock,  in  one  corner, 
was  fronted  by  a  cupboard,  with  glass  doors,  in 
another  ;  a  "  Dr.  Nott "  stove  stood  by  the  chim- 
ney-piece, and  all  the  chairs  and  tables  had 
spider-legs  and  claw-feet,  and  a  generally  anti- 
quated appearance.  When  the  breakfast  was 
laid  on  one  of  the  old  tables,  and  the  fire  glowing 
from  the  old  stove,  and  the  sun  shining  through 
the  narrow,  deep-set  windows,  it  was  a  very 
cheerful  and  pleasant  room.  But  just  now  there 
was  nothing  cheerful  about  it.  The  stove  was 
black  and  fireless ;  newspapers  were  scattered 
untidily  about  the  floor ;  chairs  huddled  in  dis- 
orderly groups  ;  Uncle  Levi's  cigar-stand,  full  of 
ashes  and  half-smoked  cigars,  upon  the  round 
table  ;  and  dust  thick  upon  everything. 

It  was  Julia's  business  to  bring  order  out  of  all 
this  confusion ;  her  morning  duty  to  dust,  ar- 
range the  furniture,  and  set  the  breakfast  table 
before  Uncle  Levi  came  down  stairs.  She  did 
not  particularly  like  the  task  at  any  time,  but  she 
liked  it  still  less  when  Tom  was  lazy,  as  he  was 
very  apt  to  be,  and  neglected  his  morning  work 
—  making  the  fire  —  until  after  she  came  down. 

Her  feather  duster  was  flourished  this  morning, 
with  many  a  jerk  of  her  shoulders,  and  many  a 


TOM'S    ALLOWANCE.  209 

fretful  expression  of  her  discontent ;  and  when 
Master  Tom  made  his  appearance  at  last,  just  as 
she  was  arranging  the  cups  and  saucers  on  the 
breakfast-tray,  she  was  quite  in  the  humor  to  give 
him  a  good  scolding,  and  did  it  accordingly. 

"  It's  too  mean  of  you,  I  declare,  Tom  !  "  was 
her  opening  salutation.  "  I  wouldn't  be  as  self- 
ish and  disagreeable  as  you  are  for  all  the 
world ! " 

"  What's  the  row,  now?  "  asked  Tom,  coolly. 
He  was  accustomed  to  "  Jule's  tantrums,"  as  he 
called  them,  and  they  did  not  make  much  im- 
pression on  him. 

"  It's  very  well  to  ask  what's  the  row,  as  if  you 
didn't  know  !  Just  look  at  the  clock,  and  see 
what  time  it  is ;  and  then  look  at  that  stove,  if 
you  please." 

"  Very  good  stove ;  what's  the  matter  with 
it?"  said  Tom,  provokingly.  "  As  for  the  clock, 
it's  half  past  seven  exactly,  and  Uncle  Levi  comes 
down  to  breakfast  at  eight  —  not  a  minute  earlier, 
not  a  minute  later.  We'll  give  Dr.  Nott  a  jolly 
red  nose  before  that  time,  Miss  Jule  ;  so  don't 
you  fret." 

"  Yes,  and  that's  all  you  care  about,  you  dis- 
obliging, selfish  boy  !  "  Julia  exclaimed,  angrily. 


2IO  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

"  You'll  have  the  fire  ready  for  Uncle  Levi,  be- 
cause you  don't  want  to  get  a  scolding  ;  but  you 
never  care  how  cold  /  am,  with  all  this  dusting 
and  cleaning  to  do,  and  the  room  like  a  barn.  I 
think  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

"  You  take  a  nice  way  to  make  me  ashamed, 
Jule,"  said  Tom,  looking  up  from  the  pan  of 
ashes  he  was  lifting  out.  "  At  this  present  min- 
ute I'm  more  ashamed  of  you" 

"  I  don't  care  if  you  are  !  "  Julia's  voice  grew 
louder,  and  her  cheek  redder  with  her  anger. 
"I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  Mister  Tom,  I  shall 
speak  to  Uncle  Levi  this  very  morning,  and  we'll 
see  if  you  are  to  impose  upon  me  this  way  any 
longer.  And  another  thing,  you  may  just  clear 
up  all  the  mess  you  make  with  those  ashes. 
I'm  not  going  to  dust  after  you  !  " 

So  she  flirted  out  of  the  room,  not  condescend- 
ing to  notice  Tom's  irritating  advice  : 

"  Take  it  easy,  Jule ;  you  don't  look  pretty 
when  you  get  so  red  in  the  face." 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word  when  breakfast- 
time  came  ;  and  as  soon  as  she  had  poured  out 
the  coffee,  she  began,  in  an  injured  tone,  and 
flashing  a  defiant  look  at  Tom,  to  pour  out  her 
grievances. 


TOMS    ALLOWANCE.  211 

"  I  don't  think  it's  fair,  Uncle  Levi.  I  think 
you  might  speak  to  Tom,  and  make  him  get  up 
earlier  in  the  morning.  I  have  to  do  all  my  work 
in  the  cold  ;  and  if  I  say  anything,  he  only  laughs 
at  me,  and  makes  hateful  speeches." 

"  Hey  !  What's  all  that,  Tom?"  Uncle  Levi 
laid  down  his  newspaper,  and  pushed  back  his 
spectacles,  with  a  questioning  look  at  Tom. 
"  You  and  Julia  ought  not  to  quarrel.  You  are 
the  same  as  brother  and  sister." 

"  O,  I  guess  not!"  exclaimed  Julia,  tossing  her 
head.  "  I'm  glad  he  isn't  my  brother,  for  I  don't 
like  him  any  too  well  as  a  cousin." 

Tom  only  laughed.  "  It's  nothing  but  Jule's 
nonsense,  Uncle  Levi.  I  didn't  make  the  fire 
early  enough  to  suit  her  this  morning,  and  so 
she  was  cross." 

"  He  didn't  come  down  till  half  past  seven," 
cried  Julia,  "  and  he  never  does ;  and  I  say  it's 
very  mean  and  selfish  of  him." 

"  Why  don't  you  get  up  earlier,  Tom?"  asked 
Uncle  Levi,  with  a  perplexed  look,  as  if  he  did 
not  quite  understand  the  vexed  question. 

"  O,  I  don't  know,"  Tom  answered,  lazily.  "  I 
get  up  time  enough  to  make  the  fire  for  break- 
fast. What's  the  use  of  bothering  about  it  an 
hour  beforehand?" 


212  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATI1EK. 

"  The  use  of  it  is  not  to  annoy  your  cousin." 

"  O,  she's  always  being  annoyed.  If  it  isn't 
one  thing  it's  another.  I  couldn't  undertake  to 
keep  her  in  a  good  humor." 

Tom  sent  a  mischievous  glance  across  the  table 
at  Julia,  and  her  tongue  was  ready  with  a  sharp 
retort ;  but  Uncle  Levi  prevented  it  by  speaking 
first.  A  bright  thought  had  just  occurred  to  him, 
by  which  he  supposed  he  could  settle  the  whole 
difficulty. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Tom,"  he  said,  "you're 
always  wanting  pocket-money,  and  now  I'll  give 
you  a  chance  to  earn  some.  You  shall  have 
three  cents  a  day  for  every  morning  that  you  are 
up  the  first  one  in  the  house,  and  have  the  fire 
made,  and  the  room  comfortable  before  your 
cousin  comes  down.  What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

"  Done  !  "  cried  Tom,  in  great  glee.  "  That's 
the  way  to  put  it,  Uncle  Levi.  Give  a  fellow  an 
object,  and  you'll  see  if  I  don't  get  up  with  the 
larks." 

"Very  well.  Remember,  though,  that  your 
allowance  will  be  docked  every  day  that  you  are 
not  punctual.  And  now,  Julia,  my  dear,  I  hope 
you  won't  have  to  complain  of  him  again." 

So  Uncle  Levi  sipped  his  coffee,  and  retired 


TOM'S    ALLOWANCE.  213 

behind  the  newspaper  once  more,  convinced  that 
the  matter  was  settled  in  the  most  satisfactory 
manner.  Which  it  was,  as  far  as  Tom  was  con- 
cerned. He  was  jubilant  in  the  prospect  of  such 
a  permanent  fund,  and  visions  of  new  skates, 
new  sleds,  tops,  and  taffy  unlimited,  danced 
already  in  his  brain. 

Julia,  on  the  contrary,  was  more  disgusted 
than  ever.  She  got  up  early  every  morning; 
had  done  it  faithfully  for  a  year  and  a  half,  ever 
since  she  came  there  to  live.  But  no  reward 
was  offered  to  her!  It  never  occurred  to  Uncle 
Levi  that  she  had  any  use  for  pocket-money  — 
no,  indeed !  And  she  might  go  on  so  forever, 
working  like  a  slave,  and  getting  no  credit  for  it, 
while  Tom  was  coaxed  and  paid  for  doing  the 
least  thing  It  was  too  mean,  it  was  too  unfair, 
Julia  thought,  angrily  and  bitterly.  And  it  was 
true  that  she  had  some  reason  to  feel  herself 
aggrieved. 

Uncle  Levi  never  meant  to  be  partial,  or  to 
make  the  slightest  difference  between  the  two 
children.  They  had  been  left  orphans  about  the 
same  time,  both  dependent  upon  him  for  home 
and  support ;  and  he  had  cared  for  them  as  kindly 
as  he  knew  how.  But  he  was  an  old  bachelor, 


214  BIRDS    OF    A    FEATHER. 

and  children  —  especially  girls  —  were  mysteri- 
ous beings  to  him.  He  did  not  know  what  they 
thought  about,  or  what  they  wanted ;  he  had  no 
idea  how  to  talk  to  them,  and  he  felt  more  com- 
fortable when  they  were  out  of  his  sight.  So  he 
had  left  Julia  pretty  much  to  Mrs.  Croaker,  and 
had  little  to  say  to  her  himself,  simply  for  the 
reason  that  he  did  not  know  how. 

It  was  different  with  Tom.  He  was  an  out- 
spoken, careless,  good-tempered  fellow,  who  was 
apt  to  ask  for  what  he  wanted,  and  not  be 
bashful  about  it  either.  Uncle  Levi  could  under- 
stand Tom  ;  so,  naturally,  he  took  more  notice  of 
him  than  he  did  of  Julia,  who  was  shy,  and  sen- 
sitive, and  hardly  ever  spoke  to  him  on  any 
account.  The  one  got  the  lion's  share  of  the  in- 
dulgences, the  other  got  the  lion's  share  of  the 
tasks  ;  but  Uncle  Levi  was  quite  unconscious  of 
both  facts. 

He  had  an  old  servant,  who  had  kept  house 
for  him  ever  since  anybody  could  remember. 
Her  name  was  Mrs.  Croaker,  and  her  nature  was 
something  similar.  She  had  strict  notions  about 
the  way  in  which  girls  should  be  brought  up. 
Plenty  of  work,  and  very  little  play  ;  no  nonsense 
about  dolls  and  story-books;  no  foolish  finery  to 


TOM  S    ALLOWANCE.  215 

• 

turn  their  Aeads ;  no  company  to  waste  their 
time  ;  schooling  enough  for  reading  and  writing, 
and  then  —  housework  and  sewing  from  morning 
to  night.  To  do  those  two  things  as  they  ought 
to  be  done,  was  the  chief  end  of  woman,  in  Mrs. 
Croaker's  catechism. 

So  you  see,  in  her  hands,  Julia  did  not  lead  a 
very  easy  life.  There  was  some  task  or  other  for 
every  hour  that  she  was  out  of  school :  the  break- 
fast-room in  the  morning,  and  her  own  bed  to 
make  up  ;  the  tea-cups  to  wash  at  night ;  stock- 
ings to  darn  ;  patch-work  and  knitting  for  even- 
ings ;  lessons  in  making  bi-ead  and  pies  on 
Saturdays ;  and  any  quantity  of  very  tiresome 
advice  and  scolding  mixed  up  with  it  all. 

While  Tom  was  not  called  upon  for  anything, 
except  an  errand  now  and  then,  to  bring  Mrs. 
Croaker  something  from  the  village ;  and  regu- 
larly to  make  this  one  fire.  And  now  he  was  to 
be  paid  three  cents  a  day  for  that,  while  Julia  had 
three  times  the  work  to  do,  and  was  paid  no  cents 
at  all.  Certainly,  it  seemed  very  aggravating. 

She  was  too  proud,  however,  to  complain  ;  and 
neither  Tom  nor  Uncle  Levi  imagined  how  she 
felt,  as  she  sat  silent,  and  "-sulky,"  Tom  would 
have  said,  behind  the  breakfast-tray.  She  poured 


2l6  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

| 

the  coffee  for  themrbut  they  never  noticed  that 
she  did  not  drink  her  own,  or  touch  the  food  upon 
her  plate.  The  poor  little  thing  was  swelling 
with  a  sense  of  wrong  and  injustice,  aching  with 
loneliness,  and  longing  for  some  one  to  comfort 
and  sympathize  with  her ;  but  not  a  soul  in  the 
house  had  any  idea  of  what  she  kept  shut  up  in 
her  little  proud  heart. 

How  should  they?  Uncle  Levi  didn't  look 
at  her  twice  a  day ;  Mrs.  Croaker  had  no  heart 
of  her  own  to  speak  about,  and  couldn't  be 
expected  to  understand  Julia's.  Children  were 
nuisances,  and  she  had  no  opinion  of  girls  in 
particular.  Tom's  thoughts  were  all  taken  up 
with  his  own  amusements ;  he  had  plenty, 
though  Julia  had  none.  It  was  no  wonder  that 
she  grew  irritable,  moody,  and  unhappy. 

Tom  called  her  cross,  and  teased .  her,  and 
laughed,  at  her  ;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
he  could  do  anything  to  make  her  more  amia- 
ble. He  got  up  punctually,  and  made  the  fire 
every  morning  in  good  season,  and  he  wondered 
that  she  was  so  often  snappish  with  him,  in  spite 
of  it,  when  she  came  down.  He  did  not  know 
that  she  never  looked  at  "Dr.  Nott"  without  a 
bitter  feeling  of  injustice  and  partiality,  which 


TOM'S   ALLOWANCE.  217 

was  all  the  harder  to  bear  for  being  shut  up  in 
her  own  heart,  and  never  expressed  to  any  one. 

So  the  time  passed  on  until  Christmas  came. 
Tom  earned  his  allowance  honestly  every  day, 
having  never  once  failed  in  his  duty  to  Dr.  Nott 
since  that  morning  in  October.  His  exemplary 
conduct  was  surprising  to  Uncle  Levi,  not  so 
much  because  he  earned  the  money,  as  becanse 
he  did  not  spend  it.  Not  a  single  sixpence  had 
been  drawn  as  yet,  for  Tom  knew  that  if  he 
had  it  in  small  sums  he  should  spend  it  in  the 
same  way,  and  he  had  an  ambitious  project  in 
his  mind  which  was  not  to  be  accomplished  on 
small  capital. 

This  was  no  less  than  an  outfit  of  steel  "  shoes  " 
for  his  beloved  sled,  "  The  Black  Wolf."  Steel 
shoes  were  rather  expensive  affairs,  greatly  ad- 
mired by  all  the  boys  in  Edgehill,  but  possessed 
by  very  few.  Dick  Hartley  and  Steve  Whitlock 
were  the  only  boys  in  Tom's  set  whose  sleds 
were  supplied  with  the  coveted  addition.  Their 
fathers  were  the  richest  men  in  the  village  ;  the 
sons,  consequently,  could  afford  luxuries  which 
other  boys  might  not  aspire  to. 

Tom  cared  nothing  about  luxuries,  properly 
speaking.  He  did  not  envy  Steve  Whitlock's 


2l8  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

handsome  clothes,  or  Dick  Hartley's  lunch- 
basket,  stuffed  every  day  with  dainties.  His 
rough  jacket  kept  him  warm,  and  bread  and 
butter  were  as  good  as  cake  when  he  was  hun- 
gry. But  those  steel  shoes  he  did  covet,  for  the 
reason  that,  in  all  boyish  sports,  Tom  liked  to  be 
second  to  nobody.  He  was  active  and  daring 
in  everything.  No  one  could  beat  him  in 
skating,  or  coasting,  or  swimming,  or  climbing, 
if  only  he  had  a  fair  chance.  His  "  Black 
Wolf"  was  acknowledged  to  be  the  swiftest 
runner  of  all  the  iron-shod  sleds ;  but,  of 
course,  it  could  not  compete  with  "  The  Red 
Fox  "  and  "  The  Sylph,"  when  they  shot  by  on 
their  smooth,  shining  steel  tires. 

Tom  had  gazed  after  these  with  longing  eyes 
many  a  time  ;  but  the  price  —  two  dollars  and  a 
half  for  the  pair  —  made  the  longing  vain.  He 
had  more  than  once  tried  to  save  up  the  odd  pen- 
nies and  sixpences  that  fell  into  his  possession,  but 
they  accumulated  so  slowly  that  he  had  given  it 
up  as  hopeless.  Now,  however,  "thanks  to 
Jule's  tantrum,"  as  he  said,  laughingly,  the 
long-desired  articles  were  in  his  reach. 

The  three  cents  per  diem  had  grown  by  Christ- 
mas Eve  to  two  dollars  and  thirty-seven  cents, 


TOM'S   ALLOWANCE.  219 

and  Tom  calculated  that  Uncle  Levi  would  give 
him  at  least  a  quarter  for  a  Christmas  gift ;  so 
that  by  New  Year's  Day  the  Black  Wolf  would 
have  her  new  shoes  on  —  and  then  let  Dick 
Hartley  and  Steve  Whitlock  look  out  for  their 
honors ! 

He  was  in  such  a  good  humor  with  his  bright 
expectations  that  he  felt  like  being  amiable  to 
Julia.  So  he  ran  into  the  dining-room,  where  she 
sat  darning  stockings  the  afternoon  before  Christ- 
mas, and  asked  her  to  go  out  on  the  ice  with  him. 
It  was  a  half  holiday  at  the  girls'  school,  as  well 
as  at  the  academy,  and  groups  of  merry  children 
—  boys  and  girls  together  —  were  down  at  the 
skating-pond.  Julia  knew  they  were  to  be  there 
this  afternoon,  and  some  of  her  schoolmates  had 
invited  her  to  join  them.  But  she  had  refused 
them  all,  for  a  reason  of  her  own  ;  and  here  she 
sat,  poking  a  darning-needle  in  and  out  of  Uncle 
Levi's  blue  yarn  stockings,  looking  just  as 
"  blue  "  and  unhappy  herself  when  Tom  came 
after  her. 

"  I  say,  Jule,"  he  began,  in  his  usual  blunt 
fashion,  "  tuck  away  those  blue  rags,  and  get 
your  muffles  on.  There's  a  jolly  time  down  at 
the  pond,  and  I  came  after  you  on  purpose." 


220  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

• 

"  Very  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  answered, 
shortly,  "but  I  can't  go." 

"Nonsense!  Why  not?  As  if  you  couldn't 
darn  stockings  any  other  day  !  But  I  can  tell  you, 
you  don't  always  have  a  chance  for  such  a  jolly 
slide !  The  ice  is  like  glass,  and  the  girls  are 
having  such  fun !  Come,  get  your  things  on, 
and  don't  be  a  goose !  " 

"  I  shan't  be  such  a  goose  as  to  go,"  she  re- 
turned, coldly. 

"And  why  rrot,  I  wonder?"  Tom  began  to 
get  vexed.  "  Are  you  obliged  to  darn  stockings 
for  a  living?  " 

"  It's  not  the  stockings." 
"  What  the  mischief  is  it,  then  ?  " 
"  It's  because  I've  nothing  fit  to  wear.     I  don't 
choose   to   go    among   those  girls,   who   are  all 
dressed    so  nicely,  in  the  shabby  old  clothes  / 
have  to  wear.     It's   bad  enough   to  have  to  go 
to  school  in  them  —  but  I  can't  help  that." 

"  That's  a  woman's  reason  for  everything,  I 
do  believe!"  Tom  exclaimed,  impatiently.  "I 
wonder  what  ails  the  clothes  you've  got  on? 
I  don't  see  any  difference  in  'em  from  the  clothes 
other  girls  wear." 

"  Of  course  you  don't,  because  you  don't  care 


TOM'S   ALLOWANCE.  221 

anything  about  me,  and  you  never  notice  what  I 
have  on.  I  guess  if  you  had  to  wear  such  a  mis- 
erable old  hood  as  that,  though,"  —  and  Julia 
pointed  scornfully  to  a  quilted  brown  merino 
hood  on  a  chair  beside  her,  —  "  you  would  see 
the  difference." 

"  It's  a  very  good  hood  as  far  as  I  see,"  Tom 
returned  ;  "  about  as  good  looking  as  my  cap,  I 
guess." 

"  Your  cap  is  the  same  sort  of  a  cap  that  other 
boys  wear,"  she  answered,  sharply.  "My  hood 
might  have  come  out  of  the  ark  for  all  its  like- 
ness to  the  things  that  are  worn  nowadays.  Ev- 
erybody else  has  a  worsted  hood,  —  something 
bright-colored  and  pretty,  —  but  I  have  to  wear 
this  old  dud  that  everybody  laughs  at,  because 
there's  no  one  in  all  the  world  that  cares  a  fig 
how  I  look.  And  I  wish  I  was  dead,  and  with 
my  mother  —  that  I  do  !  " 

At  this  climax  the  blue  yarn  stockings  were 
tossed  passionately  upon  the  floor,  and  Julia 
rushed  out  of  the  room  in  a  storm  of  tears, 
which  she  was  too  proud  to  let  Tom  see. 

He  stood  and  looked  after  her  for  a  full  minute 
in  silent  wonder.  Then  he  picked  up  the  unfor- 
tunate hood,  and  examined  it  closely.  It  was 


222  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

made  of  brown  merino,  inside  and  out,  quilted 
in  diamonds  by  Mrs.  Croaker's  own  bony  fingers, 
and  tied  with  stingy-looking  brown  merino 
strings.  It  certainly  was  not  pretty,  but  then 
it  looked  warm  and  comfortable.  Tom  couldn't 
see  why  it  wasn't  just  as  good  as  a  "  worsted 
hood,"  and,  by  the  way,  what  were  "  worsted 
hoods"? 

"  I  declare  I  don't  know,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  I  haven't  the  dimmest  idea  what  the  difference 
is ;  but  I  suppose  there  must  be  a  difference,  or 
Jule  wouldn't  get  into  such  a  tantrum.  Well, 
it's  no  use  wasting  time  here  ;  if  she  won't  go, 
she  won't." 

So  he  marched  out  again,  and  made  his  way 
in  a  few  minutes  to  the  skating-pond.  A  group 
of  girls  called  after  him,  — 

"Where's  Julia,  Tom?  Isn't  she  coming 
out?" 

And  when  he  shook  his  head  by  way  of  an- 
swer, one  of  them  ran  forward  merrily,  and  held 
out  her  arms  to  prevent  his  coming  on  the  ice. 

"  You're  to  go  right  back,  skates  and  all," 
she  cried,  laughingly,  "  and  bring  Julia  out !  It's 
a  shame  the  way  that  old  Mrs.  Croaker  keeps 
her  at  home  !  She  never  has  any  fun  at  all  I " 


TOM'S    ALLOWANCE.  223 

"  But  Mrs.  Croaker  isn't  keeping  her  now," 
said  Tom  ;  "  she's  keeping  herself.  I  asked  her 
to  come  with  me,  and  she  wouldn't." 

"Why  not?"  cried  the  whole  group,  in  cho- 
rus. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  She  said  something 
about  her  hood  being  shabby,  and  not  like  other 
people's.  I  didn't  make  out  exactly  what  she 
meant." 

"  O,  pooh!  Is  that  all?  Who  cares  about 
the  hood?" 

It  was  pretty  little  Kitty  Carey  who  spoke, 
with  a  merry  shake  of  her  head  that  set  in  mo- 
tion all  the  balls  of  her  "  rigolette,"  —  such  a 
host  of  dainty  little  balls,  nestling  in  a  scarlet 
fringe  above  her  brown  curls,  and  tossing  them- 
selves about  in  a  bewitching  sort  of  way,  that 
made  Tom,  for  the  first  time,  comprehend  the 
difference. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  —  /  should  care," 
said  Annie  Rosman,  in  answer  to  Kitty's  speech. 
She  was  quite  conscious  that  her  own  hood  was 
pretty  and  becoming. 

"  I  shouldn't  want  to  wear  that  old  brown 
merino  thing  any  more  than  Julia  does.  It  looks 
as  if  it  came  out  of  the  ark." 


224  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

"  Why,  that's  what  Jule  said  !  "  exclaimed 
Tom,  in  astonishment.  "  Is  it  really  such  a 
horrid  old  affair  after  all?" 

There  was  a  general  burst  of  laughter  at  his 
perplexed  look,  and  two  or  three  voices  an- 
swered, promptly,  — 

"  Of  course  it  is  !  Look  at  my  hood  —  look 
at  Kitty's  —  look  at  Belle's,  —  don't  you  see  any 
difference?" 

And  Tom  had  to  confess,  when  he  opened  his 
eyes  at  last,  that  there  -was  a  difference.  Carry 
Blake  had  on  something  in  blue  and  white  that 
made  her  look  as  fair  as  a  lily ;  Annie  Rosman's 
golden  hair  peeped  out  from  a  border  of  brilliant 
scarlet ;  Lucy  Whitlock's  laughing  eyes  sparkled 
under  a  crimson  hood,  spotted  with  black  ;  Belle 
Hartley  wore  a  dainty  white  one,  tied  under  the 
chin  with  rose-colored  ribbons. 

They  were  all  graceful  in  shape,  bright  in 
color,  becoming  in  effect :  as  different  as  possible 
from  the  clumsy,  sun-brown  thing  which,  now 
that  Tom  really  thought  about  it,  made  Julia 
look  so  plain  and  common  —  "  for  all  the  world 
like  a  servant  girl,"  he  thought,  with  a  sudden 
remembi-ance  of  Mrs.  Blake's  housemaid,  who 
had  been  sweeping  the  doorsteps  as  Tom  passed 


TOM  S    ALLOWANCE.  225 

by  that  very  afternoon,  with  exactly  such  a  hood 
upon  her  head. 

He  could  not  put  the  thought  out  of  his  mind 
all  through  the  afternoon.  The  frosty  air  rang 
with  merry  laughter,  the  ice  glittered  with  the 
long,  shining  tracks  of  the  skates,  the  pretty 
hoods  flitted  in  and  out  of  the  crowd,  now  up 
and  now  down,  as  the  wearers  lost  their  balance 
on  the  slippery  surface,  and  the  boys  wheeled 
and  circled  round  them  in  many  an  airy  flight. 
But  though  Tom's  skates  went  ringing  along  the 
ice  as  merrily  as  the  rest,  he  could  not  enjoy  the 
fun  as  usual  for  thinking  of  poor  little  Julia, 
alone  in  the  dingy,  old-fashioned  dining-room, 
darning  blue  yarn  stockings,  and  wishing  she 
was  dead. 

"  Hullo,  Tom  !  "  called  a  boy,  skating  past 
him.  "  Black  Wolf  got  her  steel  shoes  on?" 

"  No  !  "  answered  Tom,  emphatically. 

"  How  long  before  you  get  'em  ?  " 

"  Some  time  next  year,  maybe  —  maybe  not  at 
all." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  ex- 
claimed the  boy,  skating  back  to  Tom,  and  bal- 
ancing himself  in  front  of  him.  "You  told  me 

15 


226  BIRDS    OF   A    FEATHER. 

you  would  have  money  enough  by  Christmas ; 
you  know  you  did." 

"  Suppose  I  did?  and  if  I  choose  to  spend  it 
for  something  else,  what's  that  to  you  ?  "  and 
Tom  wheeled  round,  made  a  series  of  extraordi- 
nary curveSj  and  then  struck  a  bee  line  for  the 
edge  of  the  pond.  There  he  unbuckled  his 
skates,  slung  them  over  his  arm,  and  marched 
off  towards  home.  He  had  made  a  resolution, 
and  it  was  Tom's  way  to  put  his  resolves  into 
execution  with  as  little  delay  as  possible. 

"  Uncle  Levi,  I  would  like  to  draw  my  allow- 
ance now,  if  you  please,"  he  said,  as  he  walked 
into  the  library,  where  Uncle  Levi  sat  in  a  cloud 
of  cigar  smoke.  "  Two  dollars  and  thirty-seven 
cents  for  twenty-five  days  in  October,  thirty  in 
November,  and  twenty-four  in  December." 

"  Well,"  said  Uncle  Levi,  "  this  is  rather  an 
expensive  bargain  of  mine.  Two  dollars  and 
thirty-seven  cents  !  What  do  you  intend  to  do 
with  all  that  money,  sir?" 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  I  would  rather  not  tell 
you." 

The  color  rushed  up  'to  Tom's  brown  cheek, 
and  Uncle  Levi  looked  surprised. 

"  Don't   throw   it  away  for  nonsense,  my  boy. 


TOM'S    ALLOWANCE.  2 27 

It's  your  own,  to  be  sure,  but  still  I  wouldn't 
spend  it  foolishly." 

"  I  don't  intend  to,  Uncle  Levi.  At  least,  I 
don't  think  you'd  call  it  foolishness  if  you  knew  ; 
but  I'd  rather  not  tell  you  just  yet." 

_"  Very  well ; "  and  Uncle  Levi  handed  out  the 
money. 

Never  in  his  life  before  had  Tom  possessed  so 
much,  and  he  felt  very  rich  indeed  as  he  marched 
out  of  the  room,  jingling  his  silver  quarters,  and 
tossing  them  from  one  hand  to  the  other. 

Perhaps  you  have  already  guessed  what  he 
meant  to  do  with  them,  and  so  you'll  not  be  so 
much  astonished  as  Julia  was  the  next  morning, 
when  she  discovered  a  brown  paper  parcel  on 
the  foot  of  her  bed,  directed  to  "Miss  Julia 
Jerome." 

She  had  been  dreaming  —  poor  little  Jule  !  — 
about  Christmas-time  at  home  when  her  mother 
was  living,  and  there  were  always  pretty  gifts  for 
the  children,  and  A  merry,  happy  day  for  all  the 
household.  She  waked  up  with  a  start,  —  some- 
body had  thrown  an  orange  at  her  in  her  dream, 
—  and  for  a  minute,  as  she  sat  up  in  bed,  rubbing 
her  eyes,  she  fancied  it  was  all  true,  and  cried, 
"  Merry  Christmas ! "  half  aloud,  before  she 
knew  what  she  was  doing. 


228  BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

The  next  minute  came  back  the  dreary  recol- 
lection of  orphanhood  and  loneliness,  and  she 
murmured,  bitterly,  — 

"  Merry  Christmas,  indeed  !  There'll  be  no 
Christmas  in  this  house  —  there  never  is  ! " 

But  the  brown  paper  parcel  caught  her  eye 
suddenly,  and  she  snatched  it  up  with  eager 
curiosity,  and  tore  it  open.  It  only  contained  a 
hood  —  a  pretty,  crimson  hood  —  with  a  soft, 
puffy  border,  tufted  with  chinchilla  spots,  and 
two  long,  crimson  ribbons  to  tie  under  the  chin. 
A  slip  of  paper  pinned  to  it  had  a  line  in  Tom's 
boyish  handwriting :  — 

"  DEAR  JULE  :  Wish  you  '  Merry  Christmas ! ' 
and  the  next  time  I  ask  you  to  go  out  with  me,  I 
hope  you  won't  be  ashamed  of  your  hood. 

"  Your  affectionate  cousin,  TOM. 

"  P.  S.  —  You  may  thank  yourself  and  Dr. 
Nott  for  this.  Not  me." 

Was  that  anything  to  make  her  burst  into  tears 
and  hide  her  face  in  the  bed-clothes,  and  cry  for 
five  minutes  as  if  her  heart  would  break  ?  Of 
course  not ;  but  then  Jule  had  a  way  of  crying 
when  she  was  pleased  as  well  as  when  she  was 


TOM  S    ALLOWANCE.  229 

sorry  ;    and    she    was   all   alone    now  —  nobody 
could  laugh  at  her  for  being  foolish. 

The  first  thought  that  shaped  itself  out  of  her 
excitement  was,  — 

"  O,  how  selfish,  and  mean,  and  hateful  I  have 
been  !  To  think  how  I  grudged  Tom  that  mon- 
ey ;  how  cross  I've  been  ever  since,  and  how  he 
has  spent  it  for  me  !  " 

It  was  quite  five  minutes  more  before  she  could 
allow  herself  to  try  the  hood  on,  and  see  how 
pretty  it  was,  and  how  very  becoming.  She 
came  to  it  at  last,  however,  and  managed  to 
dress  herself,  too.  Then  she  darted  off  in  search 
of  Tom,  who  was  down  stairs  on  his  knees  be- 
fore Dr.  Nott,  just  as  busy  as  if  Christmas  was 
no  more  than  any  other  day.  But  he  was  on  the 
lookout  for  Julia,  nevertheless,  and  ready  to  give 
her  a  complacent  kiss  in  return  for  the  enthusias- 
tic hug  she  inflicted  upon  him. 

"  I'll  never  be  cross  to  you  again,  Tom, 
never !  "  she  declared,  solemnly. 

"  I  won't  count  upon  that,"  he  answered,  mis- 
chievously. 

"  But  you  may,  for  I  mean  it.  I  was  never 
cross  to  anybody  that  loved  me,  Tom  ;  only  I 
never  knew  you  did  before." 


230  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

Tom  had  not  been  quite  sure  of  that  fact  him- 
self till  this  moment.  It  came  over  him  sudden- 
ly now  that  he  might  grow  very  fond  of  her  if 
she  continued  to  look  as  pretty,  and  speak  to  him 
in  that  tender,  wistful  way.  But  he  answered 
with  a  boy's  conceit,  — 

"  There's  lots  of  things  you  don't  know  yet, 
Miss  Jule.  Hold  on  to  what  you've  learned, 
though,  and  keep  up  to  your  promises." 

"  I  always  do,"  said  Julia,  a  little  proudly. 
"You  shall  see." 

"Another  thing,"  he  added,  rather  more  ten- 
derly, "  don't  say  again  that  I  don't  care  how 
you  look.  You  look  like  a  little  beauty  this 
morning,  that's  a  fact.  And  next  to  Kitty  Carey 
I  think  you  are  the  prettiest  girl  in  town." 

At  which  Julia  told  him  he  was  a  goose,  re- 
gardless of  gender.  But  she  laughed,  and  she 
blushed,  and  looked  prettier  than  ever  in  her 
delight  at  Tom's  admiration. 

So,  of  course,  it  was  a  happy  Christmas  after 
that,  and  it  grew  into  a  surprisingly  merry  one, 
too  ;  for  when  Uncle  Levi  found  out  the  state  of 
things,  he  concluded  to  profit  by  Tom's  example, 
and  make  Christmas  gifts  himself,  which  was  a 
thing  he  had  not  thought  of  doing  in  many  3 


TOM'S    ALLOWANCE,  231 

long  year  before.  Julia  had  an  opportunity  to 
display  her  new  hood  immediately  after  break- 
fast, when  Uncle  Levi  invited  her  to  walk  down 
town  with  Tom  and  himself.  The  walk  ended, 
to  her  surprise,  at  Mr.  Thingumbob's  fancy  store, 
— "  open  on  Christmas  Day  till  twelve  o'clock 
only,"  —  and  when  they  went  out  they  had  cer- 
tainly more  to  carry  than  when  they  went  in. 

Uncle  Levi's  pockets  bulged  out  in  every  direc- 
tion ;  so  did  Tom's.  Julia's  hands  were  filled 
chiefly  with  the  dearest  little  gray  muff,  whose 
crimson  lining  and  tassels  exactly  matched  her 
hood.  She  had  longed  unspeakably  for  a  muff, 
and  needed  nothing  more  to  complete  her  happi- 
ness. Yet  Uncle  Levi,  in  his  sudden  enjoyment 
of  the  thing,  and  in  the  Christmas  excitement 
which  seemed  to  be  in  the  air,  seemed  bent  upon 
filling  her  cup  to  overflowing.  A  work-box,  with 
a  silver  thimble,  and  all  sorts  of  implements,  was 
added  to  the  muff:  and  then  a  brilliant  box  of 
bon-bons,  and  lastly,  a  book  of  fairy  tales,  gor- 
geous in  scarlet  and  gold  binding. 

As  for  Tom,  he  was  entirely  satisfied  with  the 
new  penknife,  the  handsome  color-box  and 
brushes,  and  the  nicely  bound  copy  of  "  The 
Young  Marooners,"  which  fell  to  his  share. 


232  BIRDS   OF   A   FEATHER. 

Even  Mrs.  Croaker  was  not  forgotten  ;  and  Julia 
was  delighted  at  being  called  upon  to  select 
something  as  a  gift  from  herself,  and  something 
also  from  Tom,  as  well  as  from  Uncle  Levi. 
She  pondered  and  puzzled  over  the  important 
matter  a  great  while,  but  finally  accepted  Mr. 
Thingumbob's  suggestion  of  a  new  pair  of  spec- 
tacles as  Uncle  Levi's  gift,  and  a  fine,  soft 
blanket  shawl  as  a  joint  offering  from  Tom  and 
herself. 

"  Pretty  much  !  "  said  Tom,  scornfully,  "  when 
Uncle  Levi  pays  for  it !  " 

He  didn't  disdain,  however,  to  attend  the  pre- 
sentation with  Julia,  and  accepted  Mrs.  Croaker's 
grim  acknowledgments  with  becoming  gravity. 

"  There  wern't  no  call  to  give  it  to  me,"  she 
remarked,  solemnly,  smoothing  down  the  soft, 
gray  fringe,  with  appreciation  of  its  "  quality  ;  " 
"  I  aint  one  o'  the  sort  that  expects  to  get  pres- 
ents for  doin'  their  dooty.  But  it's  a  fine  piece 
of  goods,  and  I'm  obleeged  to  you  both." 

For  three  days  after  that  it  was  remarked  that 
Mrs.  Croaker  was  in  an  angelic  temper,  and  in 
fact  she  never  was  quite  so  grim  and  unsympa- 
thetic again,  as  Julia  had  thought  her  before. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  Julia  herself  had  met 


TOM  S    ALLOWANCE.  233 

with  a  change.  She  certainly  was  not  so  mis- 
erable as  she  used  to  think  herself,  nor  so  moody 
and  fretful  as  other  people  had  found  her,  after 
that  happy  Christmas  Day.  She  knew  now  that 
Tom  loved  her,  and  that  Uncle  Levi  did  care 
about  her ;  and  so  she  set  to  work  to  make  her- 
self worthy  of  love  and  consideration. 

Tom  never  regretted  having  to  wait  three 
whole  months  for  his  steel  shoes,  and  getting  no 
opportunity  to  use  them  then.  The  constant 
affection  and  kindness  which  Julia  gave  him, 
and  her  bright,  cheerful  companionship  which 
made  home  pleasant  for  him,  were  better  than 
all  the  coasting  triumphs  of  the  season  ;  certainly 
worth  all  it  had  cost  him  to  win  them.  "  The 
only  wonder  was  that  it  had  taken  him  so  long 
to  find  out  what  a  nice  little  thing  Jule  really 
was ! "  he  thought. 

Possibly  some  other  boys  might  make  a  simi- 
lar discovery  concerning  their  sisters  or  girl- 
cousins,  if  they  went  to  work  in  the  same  spirit. 
I  leave  the  suggestion  for  particular  considera- 
tion, and  wish  you  all 

A  very  Merry  Christmas  I 


LEE    &    SHEPARD'S 

LIST  OF 

JUVENILE    PUBLICATIONS. 


OLIVER  OPTIC'S  BOOKS. 

Each  Set  in  a  neat  Box  with  Illuminated  Titles. 

Army  and  Navy  Stories.    A   Library  for   Young   and 

Old,  in  6  volumes.    i6mo.    Illustrated.    Pervol $i  SO 

The  Soldier  Boy.  The  Yankee  Middy. 

The  Sailor  Boy.  Fighting  Joe. 

The  Young  Lieutenant  Brave  Old  Salt. 

Famous  "  Boat-dull "  Series.  A  Library  for  Young 
People.  Handsomely  Illustrated.  Six  volumes,  in  neat 
box.  Per  vol I  25 

The  Boat  Club ;  or,  The  Bunkers  of  Rippleton. 

All  Aboard  ;  or,  Life  on  the  Lake. 

Now  or  Never ;  or,  The  Adventures  of  Bobby  Bright. 

Try  Again  ;  or,  The  Trials  and  Triumphs  of  Harry  West. 

Poor  and  Proud  ;  or,  The  Fortunes  of  Katy  Redburn. 

Little  by  Little  ;  or,  The  Cruise  of  the  Flyaway. 

Lake  Shore  Series,  The.      Six  volumes.      Illustrated. 

In  neat  box.    Per  vol I  25 

Through  by  Daylight ;    or,  The  Young  Engineer  of  the 

Lake  Shore  Railroad. 

Lightning  Express  ;  or,  The  Rival  Academies. 
On  Time  ,  or,  The  Young  Captain  of  the  Ucayga  Steamer. 
Switch  Off ;  or,  The  War  of  the  Students. 
Break  Up  ;  or,  The  Young  Peacemakers. 
Bear  and   Forbear;    or,  The    Young   Skipper   of  Lake 

Ucayga. 


LEE  &  SHEPARD'S  JUVENILE  PUBLICATIONS. 

Soldier  Boy  Series,  The.     Three  volumes,  in  neat 

box.    Illustrated.    Per  vol i  «o 

The  Soldier  Boy  ;  or,  Tom  Somers  in  the  Army. 

The  Young  Lieutenant ;  or,  The  Adventures  of  an  Army 

Officer. 
Fighting  Joe ;  or,  The  Fortunes  of  a  Staff  Officer. 

Sailor  Boy  Series,  The.    Three  volumes  in  neat  box. 

Illustrated.     Per  vol I  50 

The  Sailor  Boy ;  or,  Jack  Somers  in  the  Navy. 

The  Yankee  Middy ;  or,  Adventures  of  a  Naval  Officer. 

Brave  Old  Salt ;  or,  Life  on  the  Quarter-Deck. 

Starry  Flag  Series,  The.    Six  volumes.     Illustrated. 

Per  vol I  25 

The  Starry  Flag  ;  or,  The  Young  Fisherman  of  Cape  Ann. 
Breaking  Away ;  or,  The  Fortunes  of  a  Student 
Seek  and  Find  ;  or,  The  Adventures  of  a  Smart  Boy. 
Freaks  of  Fortune  ;  or,  Half  Round  the  World. 
Make  or  Break ;  or,  The  Rich  Man's  Daughter. 
Down  the  River ;  or,  Buck  Bradford  and  the  Tyrants. 

The    Household   Library*    3  volumes.     Illustrated. 

Per  volume I  50 

Living  too  Fast.  In  Doors  and  Out 

The  Way  of  the  World. 

Way  of  the  World,  The.   By  William  T.  Adams  (Oliver 

Optic) 1 2ino  I  50 

Woodville  Stories.     Uniform  with  Library  for  Young 

People.     Six  volumes.     Illustrated.     Per  vol i6mo  I  25 

Rich  and  Humble  ;  or,  The  Mission  of  Bertha  Grant 
In  School  and  Out ;  or,  The  Conquest  of  Richard  Grant 
Watch  and  Wait ;  or,  The  Young  Fugitives. 
Work  and  Win  ;  or,  Noddy  Newman  on  a  Cruise. 
Hope  and  Have  ;  or,  Fanny  Grant  among  the  Indians. 
Haste  and  Waste ;  or,  The  Young  Pilot  of  Lake  Champlain. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


lOm-ll, '50(2555)470 


BBMF_      THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000475632    6 


PZ6 
B727b 


iil 

•SB 


